GIFT  OF 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


v- 


THE  POEMS  AND  STORIES 


OP 


FITZ-JAMES    O'BRIEN. 


Collects  anto  EUitcU,  tottfj  a  Sftetclj  of  tfje  8utJjor, 

BY 
WILLIAM     WINTER. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 

1881. 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS  : 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


(Efjts  Folume, 

THE   FIRST   THAT   EVER   HAS   BEEN   MADE 
OF   THE   WRITINGS    OF 

FITZ-JAMES    O'BRIEN, 

SOLDIER    AND    PATRIOT 

AS    WELL    AS    POET    AND    SCHOLAR, 

IS    DEDICATED 

TO    THE   ARMY   OF    THE   POTOMAC, 

UNDER  WHOSE   FLAG    HE    FOUGHT,   AND   FOR 
WHOSE    CAUSE    HE    DIED. 


365973 


PREFACE. 


work  that  is  here  performed — imperfectly,  but  as 
thoroughly  as  is  now  possible — -should  have  been  done 
a  long  time  ago,  and  would  have  been  done,  but  for  several 
serious  obstacles  interposed  by  what,  seemingly,  was  an 
almost  malign  fate.  0  'Brien  on  his  death-bed  appointed 
two  friends  to  be  his  literary  executors.  One  of  them,  Mr. 
Frank  Wood,  speedily  followed  him  "into  the  silent  land." 
The  other,  Mr.  Thomas  E.  Davis,  found  neither  opportu- 
nity, encouragement,  nor  an  auspicious  time  for  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  work.  O'Brien's  writings  were  scattered  far 
and  wide.  In  some  instances  the  use  of  them  was  thought  to 
be  impeded  by  the  claim  of  copyright.  The  facts  of  his  brief 
career  were  but  obscurely  known.  His  character  and  his 
way  of  life  had  made  him  a  difficult  subject  to  treat.  It 
was  natural  that  a  gentleman,  not  by  profession  a  man  of 
letters,  and  embarrassed  by  such  untoward  circumstances, 
should  hesitate  at  such  a  task.  About  six  years  ago,  the 
intimation  was  given  that  O'Brien's  writings  would  be  col- 
lected and  published  by  one  of  his  relatives  in  Ireland. 
Nothing,  however,  came  of  that ;  and  it  seemed  more  than 
likely  that  justice  to  the  memory  of  this  brilliant  writer 
would  never  be  attempted.  Tarn  almost  the  last  survivor 
of  the  literary  comrades  with  whom  he  was  associated  more 
than  twenty  years  ago  ;  and  perhaps  it  is  not  altogether 
inappropriate  that  the  work  so  long  left  untouched  by  others 
should  at  last  be  accomplished  by  me. 


vi  PBEFACE. 

The  writings  here  collected  have  been  drawn  from  many 
sources,  and  they  have  been  thoughtfully  chosen,  carefully 
arranged,  and,  in  some  instances,  revised.  It  has  been 
found  essential  to  search  many  old  files  and  to  confer  with 
many  persons.  Messrs.  Harper  3?  Brothers,  with  ready 
kindness,  have  permitted  me  to  use  all  of  O'Brien's  works 
that  were  originally  published  in  their  periodicals,  and 
also  the  cuts  which  illustrate  the  satire  of  "  The  Finishing 
School."  The  Harpers  were  among  his  stanchest,  most 
practical,  and  most  faithful  friends.  Articles  of  his  have 
been  taken  also  from  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  the  Knicker- 
bocker, Putnam's  Magazine,  the  United  States  Review, 
Vanity  Fair,  the  Lantern,  the  Home  Journal,  and  other 
sources.  He  contributed  to  many  periodicals,  —  to  the 
New  York  Times,  the  Evening  Post,  Leslie's  Story  Paper, 
Leslie's  Stars  and  Stripes,  the  Democratic  Review,  and 
the  American  Whig  Review  ;  and  it  is  said  that,  in  1851, 
he  edited,  in  London,  a  publication  devoted  to  the  World's 
Fair,  and  that  he  also  wrote  for  the  Leisure  Hour.  Like 
all  authors  who  are  obliged,  habitually  and  constantly,  to 
work  under  the  stress  and  strain  of  writing  for  bread,  he 
produced  things  that  had  no  value  beyond  the  moment,  and 
some  that  were  below  the  level  of  his  own  standard  of  taste. 
In  preparing  this  volume,  the  endeavor  has  been  made  to 
present  a  selection  of  his  chief  and  characteristic  works, 
rather  than  to  mass  together  all  that  he  wrote.  The  material 
thus  far  collected  would  Jill  more  than  a  thousand  pages, 
and  much  of  what  is  now  necessarily  omitted  is  equally 
worthy  with  the  works  here  given  of  republication  in  a  per- 
manent form. 

Among  O'Brien's  writings  which  it  has  not  been  found 
possible  to  include  in  this  collection,  but  which  may  here- 
after be  presented  to  the  public,  are  essays  entitled  "  Tour 


PREFACE.  vil 

Health"  "Bird  Gossip"  and  "A  Paper  of  All  Sorts,"  and 
seven  miscellaneous  poems,  —  all  published  in  Harper ; 
his  "  Fragments  from  an  Unpublished  Magazine,"  which 
appeared  in  the  Democratic  Review,  in  September,  October, 
and  December,  1852 ;  his  series  of  sketches,  called  "  The 
lllan  about  Town"  begun  in  Harper's  Weekly,  and  con- 
tinued in  Frank  H.  Bellew's  Picayune ;  his  dramatic  re- 
views, contributed  to  the  Saturday  Press  in  1858-59]  a 
number  of  papers  in  the  old  series  of  Putnam  ;  many  mis- 
cellaneous articles  in  the  Home  Journal,  the  Lantern,  Van- 
ity Fair,  and  other  papers ;  more  than  twenty  stories ; 
and  six  plays.  It  is  said  that  he  began,  and  partly  com- 
posed, a  tragedy  on  the  subject  of  Samson  ;  but  I  have  not 
been  able  to  Jind  it.  He  undertook  to  write,  for  Leslie's 
Stars  and  Stripes,  —  a  paper  published,  during  about  six 
months,  in  1859,  —  a  romance  entitled  "  The  Scarlet  Pet- 
ticoat ";  but  this  has  not  been  found.  He  began,  in  Bel- 
lew's  Picayune,  March  27th,  1858,  a  story  called  "  From 
Hand  to  Mouth";  but  he  left  it  incomplete,  and  it  was 
finished  either  by  Bellew  ("Triangle"),  or  by  Pool,  his 
sub-editor.  He  wrote  discursive  articles  on  many  subjects. 
He  was  surprisingly  apt  at  jest,  and  squib,  and  song. 
With  a  rare  aptitude  for  literature,  he  possessed  also  an 
extraordinary  faculty  for  journalism.  I  have  traced  his 
busy  pen  in  many  places.  He  was  the  most  industrious 
idle  man  that  ever  I  have  known. 

It  is  more  than  eighteen  years  since  O'Brien  diedf  Many 
men  who  knew  him  and  could  have  given  information  con- 
cerning him  have,  within  that  time,  passed  away.  In 
making  a  memoir  of  him  I  have  endeavored  to  augment  my 
own  imperfect  tribute  by  adding  to  it  the  testimony  of  other 
writers.  Mr.  Thomas  E.  Davis,  O'Brien's  surviving  ex- 
ecutor, Mr.  Louis  H.  Stephens,  the  principal  artist  of 


viii  PREFACE. 

Vanity  Fair^  and  Mr.  Stephen  Fiske,  whose  name  in  jour- 
nalism is  a  synonyme  of  sprightliness  and  dash,  have 
generously  enriched  with  their  recollections  the  memorial 
pages  which  follow.  I  reprint,  beside-,  a  sketch  of  him  by 
the  beloved  and  lamented  George  Arnold,  and  an  account 
of  his  military  career  that  was  written  by  Frank  WoVd, 
in  the  New  York  Leader,  April  l%th,  1862 ;  and  in  this, 
as  Wood  was  appointed  one  of  his  executors,  there  is  a  sort 
of  fulfilment  of  the  wishes  of  the  dead.  I  have  received 
encouragement  in  my  task  from  Bellew,  one  of  O'Brierfs 
best  friends  and  earliest  associates  in  America ;  from 
Aldrich,  the  poet,  once  his  close  companion ;  from  the 
learned,  gracious,  and  kindly  veteran  of  letters,  Dr.  R. 
Shelton  Mackenzie ;  from  Mr.  Thomas  Powell,  whose  green 
old  age  delights  in  genial  remembrance  of  the  literary  past ; 
from  Dr.  A.  L.  Carroll,  who  knew  him  well;  and  from 
Mr.  J.  W.  Harper,  Jr.,  whose  friendship  for  the  poet  when 
he  was  living  is  now  a  fresh  and  tender  memory,  surviving 
all  the  years  that  have  passed  since  he  died.  Mr.  Stephens, 
furthermore,  has  been  persuaded  to  paint,  from  memory,  a 
portrait  of  O'Brien  to  embellish  this  volume  ;  and  I  pre- 
serve here  a  Dirge  for  O'Brien  by  the  late  Charles  Daw  son 
Shanly, — his  friend  and  mine.  Tenderly  loved  and  deeply 
deplored,  he  too  sleeps  the  long  sleep  of  death.  How  deep 
had  been  his  joy,  if  only  he  could  have  lived  to  take  a  per- 
sonal part  in  this  commemoration  of  his  brilliant  country- 
man an.d  cherished  comrade!  His  dirge — as  full  of  tears 
as  of  music —  is  a  fitting  ritual  for  the  soldier  poet.  "In 
death  they  are  not  divided." 

W.  W. 

Fort  Hill,  New  Brighton,  Staten  Island, 
October  12th,  1880. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

SKETCH  or  O'BRIEN,  by  William  Winter xiii 

Dirge  for  O'Brien,  by  C.  D.  Shanly xiv 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

O'Brien  in  his  Last  Days,  by  Thomas  E.  Davis      .         .  xxxi 
O'Brien  as  Poet  and  Soldier,  by  Frank  Wood  ....  xxxvi 

O'Brien's  Personal  Characteristics,  by  George  Arnold    .  xlvi 

O'Brien's  Bohemian  Days,  by  Stephen  Fiske    ....  liv 

O'Brien  as  Journalist  and  Soldier,  by  Louis  H.  Stephens  .  lix 

POEMS. 

Sir  Brasil's  Falcon 3 

Kane 16 

The  Lost  Steamship 20 

A  Fallen  Star 23 

The  Ballad  of  the  Shamrock 28 

Amazon .  31 

The  Man  at  the  Door 35 

The  Enchanted  Titan 37 

Loss 39 

Our  Christmas  Tree 42 

The  Pot  of  Gold 45 

Minot's  Ledge 48 

The  Legend  of  Easter  Eggs 50 

Down  in  the  Glen  at  Idlewild 53 

Wanted— Saint  Patrick 54 

The  Prize  Fight •.    .    .    .  57 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Song  of  the  Locomotive 61 

Irish  Castles 64 

Loch  Ine 65 

An  April  Day 66 

Johnny 68 

The  Skaters f  .' '' 71 

The  Demon  of  the  Gibbet 73 

The  Wharf  Rat 74 

TheHavelock 75 

The  Countersign '. 78 

The  Zouaves 80 

A  Soldier's  Letter 83 

The  Prisoner  of  War 86 

Winter 89 

The  Sewing  Bird 90 

A  Summer  Idyl     .         99 

By  the  Passaic 102 

The  Three  Gannets .  104 

The  Sea 105 

Willy  and  I 106 

The  Challenge 107 

When  I  came  back  from  Sea 107 

An  Old  Story 110 

Helen  Lee Ill 

Strawberries 118 

Battledores 119 

The  Finishing  School 121 

STORIES. 

The  Diamond  Lens 145 

The  Wondersmith 177 

Tommatoo 224 

Mother  of  Pearl 257 

The  Bohemian       •  .    .  281 

The  Lost  Room 309 

The  Pot  of  Tulips 332 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

The  Golden  Ingot 355 

My  Wife's  Tempter ,374 

What  Was  It  ? 390 

Duke  Humphrey's  Dinner 408 

Milly  Dove 426 

The  Dragon  Fang 454 


APPENDIX  :  Charles  Dawson  Shanly 481 


SKETCH  OF   O'BRIEN 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 


/  count  myself  in  nothing  else  so  happy 

As  in  a  soul  rememb'ring  my  good  friends." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


A    DIEGE: 

IN  MEMORY  OF  FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN. 
DIED,  APRIL  6,  1862. 

I. 

Toll,  bell, 

With  solemn  knell, 

For  him  who  fell 

In  the  galloping  jlyht  ! 
Trumpets,  ring 
To  the  dirge  we  sing 
In  our  hearts  that  cling 

Round  the  spirit  so  bright ! 
Roll,  drum, 

v  As  the  vaulted  tomb 

For  his  early  doom 

Is  gaping  drearily  ! 
Cold  and  dead, 
In  his  stony  bed 

Lay  him,  who  lately  sang  so  cheerily  ! 

II. 

Hush,  hush  ! 
The  memories  rush 
With  impetuous  gush 

On  heart  and  head: 
Speak  low,  — 
None  of  us  know 
Half  we  forego 

In  the  gallant  dead. 
Plant  jlowers, 
Not  where  April  showers, 
But  tears,  like  ours, 

Shall  make  them  bloom,  — 
And  their  breath  impart 
To  each  kindred  heart 
In  the  crypt  of  which 

Is  thepoefs  tomb! 

CHARLES  DAWSON  SHANLY. 
Vanity  Fair,  April  19th,  1862. 


SKETCH    OF    O'BRIEN. 


THAT  the  facts  of  a  man's  life  which  can  be  stated  are 
but  poorly  adequate  to  convey  a  full  sense  of  what  that 
life  really  was  is  a  truth  that  receives  additional  illustra- 
tion in  this  imperfect  biography.  Yet  this  record  is  as 
nearly  complete  as  careful  research  and  conscientious 
labor  can  now  make  it.  The  more  important  part  of  the 
life  of  its  subject  was  his  intellectual  and  spiritual  ex- 
perience. The  history  of  his  mind,  however,  is  written 
in  his  works.  It  is  only  attempted,  in  this  place,  to  set 
down  the  incidents  of  his  career. 

FITZ- JAMES  O'BRIEN  was  born  in  the  county  of  Lim- 
erick, Ireland,  about  the  year  1828.  His  father  was  an 
attorney-at-law.  His  mother  was  a  lady  of  remarkable 
beauty.  He  received  a  good  education  at  Dublin  Uni- 
versity. He  was  not  trained,  however,  to  either  of 
the  learned  professions;  but  it  is  remembered  that  he 
claimed  to  have  been  at  one  time  a  soldier  in  the  Brit- 
ish service.  He  very  early  evinced  a  taste  and  aptitude 
for  writing  verses;  and  among  his  first  works  are  two 
poems,  entitled  "  Loch  Ine  "  and  "  Irish  Castles,"  which 
appear,  without  an  author's  name,  in  "  The  Ballads  of 
Ireland,"  collected  and  edited  by  Edward  Hayes  (1856). 
On  leaving  college  he  went  up  to  London,  where,  in  the 


xvi  SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN. 

course  of  about  two  years,  he  spent  his  inheritance, 
stated  at  eight  thousand  pounds.  In  1851,  according 
to  a  somewhat  dubious  report,  he  edited,  in  London,  a 
periodical  devoted  to  the  World's  Fair.  Late  in  that 
year,  or  early  in  1852,  he  found  it  essential  to  seek  his 
fortune  in  the  New  World.  One  of  his  friends  was  Dr. 
Collins,  brother  to  the  Roman  Catholic  Bishop  of  Cloyne, 
and  through  his  influence  O'Brien  obtained  letters  of 
introduction,  from  Dr.  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  —  then 
editor  of  a  newspaper  in  Liverpool,  and  correspondent 
for  the  New  York  Evening  Star,  —  addressed  to  Major 
Noah,  General  George  P.  Morris,  and  other  prominent 
citizens  of  the  American  capital.  With  these,  on  his 
arrival  here,  the  adventurous  young  poet  made  an  au- 
spicious entrance  into  society  and  literature ;  and  it  was 
not  long  before  his  singularly  brilliant  abilities  were 
recognized,  and  he  became  a  general  favorite.  In  that 
way  his  American  career  began,  which  was  destined, 
within  the  brief  period  of  ten  years,  to  be  signalized  by 
the  production  of  some  of  the  most  original  and  beau- 
tiful poems  and  stories  in  the  literature  of  his  time,  to 
flow  through  many  painful  vicissitudes  and  much  trouble, 
and  to  end  abruptly  in  a  soldier's  grave. 

The  chronicle  of  his  literary  life  must,  necessarily,  be 
discursive.  It  was  in  no  sense  more  eventful  than 
such  lives  usually  are,  —  except  that  it  was  more  pain- 
fully irregular  and  more  startlingly  productive.  His  ear- 
liest writings  here  were  published  by  John  Brougham,  in 
the  Lantern.  "When  I  first  knew  him,"  says  his  old 
comrade,  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  "  he  was  trimming  the 
wick  of  the  Lantern,  which  went  out  shortly  afterwards." 
In  that  paper  appeared,  among  other  of  his  productions, 
the  touching  poem  of  "An  Old  Story,"  "The  Ballad  of 


SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN.  xvii 

Sir  Brown,"  "The  Gory  Gnome,"  and  "The  Wonderful 
Adventures  of  Mr.  Papplewick."  At  one  of  Brougham's 
weekly  dinners,  in  Windust's  old  place,  near  the  original 
Park  Theatre,  —  at  which  the  writers  and  artists  of  his 
Lantern  were  regularly  convened,  and  at  which  every- 
thing but  the  paper  was  discussed,  —  O'Brien  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  artist  and  author,  Mr.  Frank  H.  Bel- 
lew,  who  became  one  of  his  intimate  friends.  The  New 
York  residences  were,  in  those  days,  much  further  "  down 
town"  than  they  are  now,  and  O'Brien  and  Bellew  at  one 
time  lodged  together  in  Leonard  Street,  and  subsequently 
in  Broadway,  immediately  opposite  to  what  is  now  the 
Metropolitan  Hotel,  and  on  the  site  of  the  building  after- 
wards locally  famous  as  Stanwix  Hall.  That,  of  course, 
was  the  season  of  the  light  heart  and  the  foaming  flagon, 
when  the  chimes  are  heard  at  midnight  and  the  bloom 
is  on  the  rye.  O'Brien's  associations  then  were  largely 
with  the  circles  that  eddied  around  Willis  and  Morris; 
and  at  that  time  he  wrote  a  few  sketches  and  verses 
for  the  Home  Journal.  His  poem  which  I  have  named 
"  The  Demon  of  the  Gibbet "  originally  appeared  in  that 
paper,  under  the  inexpressive  title  of  "  What  Befell."  He 
contributed,  also,  in  a  fitful  and  miscellaneous  way,  to 
the  Evening  Post  and  to  the  New  York  Times ;  and  he 
wrote  for  the  American  Whig  Review  his  "Fragments 
from  an  Unpublished  Magazine."  He  was,  in  brief,  a 
literary  soldier  of  fortune ;  and,  with  his  expensive  tastes 
and  already  settled  habits  of  extravagance,  it  is  needless 
to  say  that  in  time  he  found  the  Grub  Street  pathway 
an  exceedingly  weary  road. 

The  most  important  literary  association  that  he  ever 
formed  was  that  which  made  him  a  regular  contributor 
to  Harper's  Magazine.  His  first  paper  in  that  publication 

b 


xviii  SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN. 

appeared  in  the  number  for  February,  1853,  and  is  enti- 
tled "  The  Two  Skulls."  It  is  scientific  and  philosophical. 
He  contributed  to  fifty-two  numbers,  and  there  are  sixty- 
six  of  his  productions  in  that  periodical.  His  pen  appears 
to  have  been  in  its  most  prolific  period  during  the  years 
1855,  '56,  and  '57.  His  last  paper  in  Harper,  a  story 
entitled  "  How  I  Overcame  my  Gravity,"  was  not  pub- 
lished till  May,  1864,  —  more  than  two  years  after  he 
was  dead.  He  never  saw  in  print,  either,  —  for  they  also 
were  posthumous  publications,  —  his  excellent  story  of 
"  Tommatoo,"  or  his  sad  poem  of  "  Down  in  the  Glen 
at  Idlewild."  He  wrote  copiously  for  Harper's  Weekly, 
as  well  as  for  the  Magazine.  His  noble  ode  on  KANE 
was  first  printed  in  that  journal,  and  there  likewise 
first  appeared  his  richly  fanciful,  inventive,  picturesque 
poem  of  "  The  Zouaves,"  —  a  work  which  conspicu- 
ously illustrates  his  remarkable  faculty  for  giving  an  im- 
aginative application  to  an  idea  or  topic  of  the  passing 
hour.  He  wrote  stories,  too,  for  Harper's  Weekly,  and  he 
wrote  a  series  of  familiar  letters,  called  "  The  Man  about 
Town,"  which,  even  at  this  distance  of  time,  can  be  read 
with  pleasure,  for  the  liveliness  of  their  spirit  and  the 
grace  of  their  style.  All  this  while  he  was  writing,  as 
capricious  fancy  prompted  or  as  the  spur  of  necessity  com- 
pelled, in  other  quarters.  The  veteran  James  W.  AVallack 
was  one  of  his  dearest  friends,  and  for  Wallack's  theatre 
he  wrote  several  bright  little  pieces,  —  spirited  in  idea, 
impetuous  in  spirit,  and  clean  and  polished  in  mechanism, 
—  which  were  acted  well,  and  which  found  a  ready  accep- 
tation. One  of  these,  "  A  Gentleman  from  Ireland,"  still 
keeps  the  stage,  and  will  long  be  found  serviceable  to  the 
dashing  light  comedian.  For  Laura  Keene's  theatre,  at 
the  instance  of  Jefferson,  —  then  its  stage  manager  and 


SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN.  ^         xix 

principal  actor, — he  adapted  one  of  Brough's  burlesques; 
and  this  piece,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Tycoon,"  was  pro- 
duced during  the  visit  of  the  first  Japanese  Embassy  to 
this  country.  He  was  possessed  of  a  strong  dramatic 
sense  and  had  a  good  knowledge  of  the  stage,  —  the  latter 
having  been  acquired  in  his  London  days,  —  and,  although 
he  was  inclined  to  push  the  theory  of  "  natural "  acting 
much  too  far,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  tale  of  "  Mother  of 
Pearl,"  he  could  write  with  incisive  judgment  and  inform- 
ing taste  on  the  acted  drama.  He  did  so  in  the  autumn 
of  1858,  in  the  New  York  Saturday  Press;  and  one  of 
his  dramatic  articles,  in  particular,  —  a  disquisition  upon 
the  tragedy  of  "  Hamlet,"  with  Mr.  Barry  Sullivan  as  the 
melancholy  Dane,  —  is  remarkable  equally  for  poetic  in- 
telligence, acute  analysis,  and  fine  description.  To  Put- 
nam's Magazine  —  that  noble  monument  to  the  exquisite 
taste  of  George  William  Curtis  —  he  was  a  contributor 
in  the  first  number  and  for  several  years ;  and  several  of 
the  gems  of  this  collection  have  been  taken  from  that 
source.  He  was  a  diligent  writer  for  Vanity  Fair,  and 
from  those  sparkling  columns  are  gathered  his  grisly  fancy 
of  "  The  Wharf  Rat,"  his  athletic  and  sonorous  "  Song  of 
the  Locomotive,"  and  his  idyl  of  "Strawberries."  Two 
of  his  most  remarkable  stories  belong  to  this  period  of 
nomadic  labor,  —  "  The  Diamond  Lens  "  and  "  The  Won- 
dersmith,"  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  in  January, 
1858,  and  October,  1859.  They  electrified  magazine 
literature,  and  they  set  up  a  model  of  excellence  which, 
in  this  department,  has  made  it  better  than  it  ever  had 
been,  in  this  country,  before  those  tales  were  printed. 

O'Brien  had  a  great  admiration  for  the  strange,  wild, 
passionate  genius  of  Matilda  Heron ;  and  it  once  suited 
his  fancy  to  travel,  as  a  literary  assistant,  with  H.  L. 


xx          .,  SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN. 

Bateman,  —  that  iron-willed  yet  genial  Boanerges  of  man- 
agers, —  who  was  then  directing  a  professional  tour  for 
that  actress.  Miss  Heron  was  acting  in  "  Camille,"  which 
had  but  recently  been  introduced  upon  the  American 
stage,  and  in  a  drama  by  Mrs.  Bateman,  entitled  "Ger- 
aldine."  On  this  trip  O'Brien  visited  Boston,  and  he 
remained  for  some  time  in  that  city  and  its  neighborhood ; 
and  I  remember  that  he  considerably  astonished  some  of 
the  quiet  literary  circles  of  that  staid  and  decorous  region 
by  his  utter  and  unaffected  irreverence  for  various  cam- 
phorated figure-heads  which  were  then  an  incubus  upon 
American  letters.  It  was  there  and  then  that  I  first 
met  him,  and  first  observed  that  stalwart  mind  and  that 
formidable  frankness  of  temperament  for  which  he  was 
remarkable.  He  was  now  considerably  changed  from 
what  he  had  been  when  he  came  to  America.  Mental 
toil  and  bodily  privation,  the  hardships  of  a  gypsy  life, 
the  reactionary  sense  of  being  in  false  positions  and  of 
being  misunderstood,  —  which  often  will  embitter  natural 
sweetness  and  turn  amiability  to  proud  and  glittering  de- 
fiance, —  had  done  their  work  upon  his  nature,  and  made 
him,  in  some  of  his  moods,  as  lawless,  arrogant,  and  tru- 
culent, as  in  others  he  was  gentle,  resigned,  affectionate, 
and  almost  forlorn.  In  his  face  and  carriage  there  was 
the  strong  and  splendid  freedom  of  the  wild  woods ;  yet 
at  times  there  came  into  his  eyes  a  weary  look  of  unrest, 
and  a  quite  indescribable  light  of  dangerous,  half-slum- 
bering wrath,  —  as  of  a  soul  that  was  a  hunted  vagabond 
standing  sentinel  over  its  own  desolation.  I  was  attracted 
toward  him  by  a  profound  sympathy,  and  we  became 
comrades  and  friends,  and  so  remained  to  the  end.  I 
have  heard  that,  when  he  first  established  himself  in  New 
York,  he  dwelt  in  comfortable  quarters  and  surrounded 


SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN.  xxi 

himself  with  appliances  of  luxury.  His  raiment  was 
superb ;  his  library  was  excellent ;  his  furniture  was  taste- 
ful; and,  like  De  Mauprat,  he  was  "  splendid  in  banquets." 
His  personal  appearance  in  those  days  —  before,  as  hap- 
pened in  June,  1858,  his  nose  had  been  broken  by  the 
blow  of  a  pugilist  —  was  singularly  attractive.  He  had 
a  fair  and  glowing  complexion,  and  waving  brown  hair; 
his  eyes  were  gray -blue,  large,  brilliant,  and  expressive ; 
his  smile  was  honest  and  sweet,  and  his  countenance 
frank  and  winning;  he  was  of  the  middle  stature,  an 
athlete  in  person,  and  he  moved  with  negligent  grace. 
His  voice  was  rich  in  quality,  loud  and  clear,  and  he  had 
a  bluff  and  breezy  manner  of  speech,  tending  at  times  to 
a  joyous  turbulence.  In  a  general  way  he  retained  these 
characteristics ;  but  at  the  time  of  our  companionship  he 
had  emerged  from  his  condition  of  elegance,  and  his  for- 
tunes were  low.  He  had  no  property;  he  was  at  variance 
with  many  old  acquaintances ;  his  face  had  suffered  dis- 
figurement ;  he  lived  nowhere  in  particular ;  and  he  was 
thoroughly  well  acquainted  with  hard  times.  I  found 
him,  in  those  gypsy  days,  a  delightful  associate.  His 
animal  spirits  were  prodigious.  His  literary  invention 
was  alert,  vigorous,  and  almost  incessant.  His  enjoyment 
of  the  passing  hour  was  so  keen,  that  it  gave  a  zest  to 
the  enjoyment  of  all  around  him.  No  matter  how  close 
poverty  might  pinch,  or  how  dark  the  clouds  might  lower 
over  the  portal  of  the  future,  the  laugh  of  O'Brien  blew 
care  away  from  the  cup  of  life,  as  the  foam  is  blown  from 
the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

His  habits  of  literary  composition,  as  will  be  surmised, 
were  erratic.  A  man  less  buoyant  than  he  would  have 
been  paralyzed  by  the  hardships  through  which  he  drift- 
ed and  labored.  But,  amid  chaos  or  tempest,  he  was 


xxii  SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN. 

always  seeing,  always  thinking,  always  at  work.  Perhaps 
he  liked  best  to  drift  in  the  sunshine  and  to  make  merry 
with  genial  companions;  but  he  could  nerve  himself 
to  effort  when  the  occasion  demanded  it,  and  he  could 
execute  prodigious  tasks  with  amazing  celerity.  Times 
of  indolence  and  times  of  tremendous  exertion  check- 
ered his  life  along  the  whole  of  its  course.  He  was  not 
a  fluent  writer,  because  he  thought  deeply,  and  wrote 
logically,  and  was  fastidious  in  taste  j  but  his  creative  lit- 
erary impulse  was  exceedingly  strong,  and  his  feeling  was 
earnest.  He  possessed  an  ample  and  ready  command  of 
the  resources  of  literary  art,  his  mind  was  replete  with 
what  it  had  absorbed  in  hours  of  apparent  idleness,  and 
he  worked  with  relentless  purpose  and  absorbing  zeal. 
In  this  way  it  chanced  that  he  could  accomplish  a  for- 
midable task  in  a  surprisingly  short  time,  yet  always 
deliver  his  work  rounded  and  finished  as  if  with  the  scru- 
pulous labor  of  weeks.  His  poem  of  "  A  Fallen  Star," 
for  example,  was  written  in  my  lodging,  between  mid- 
night and  morning,  at  one  sitting,  and  he  left  the  original 
draft  upon  the  table,  having  made  a  clean  copy  of  it  for 
the  press.  A  fac-simile  of  a  page  of  that  manuscript  is 
given  in  this  volume,  and  it  strikingly  reveals  the  care 
with  which  he  wrote.  His  poem  of  "  The  Sewing  Bird  " 
was  also  written  in  my  lodging,  within  the  course  of  two 
nights,  and  I  have  kept  the  pen  with  which  it  was  written, 
as  a  relic  of  a  remarkable  effort.  I  never  saw  him  so 
deeply  depressed  as  he  was  then,  —  and  with  good  reason, 
for  he  was  destitute,  cheerless,  and  hungry ;  and  when- 
ever that  was  his  case  he  would  not  share  with  a  com- 
rade, and  even  when  food  was  left  in  his  way  he  would 
not  take  it.  He  sold  "  The  Sewing  Bird "  for  one  hun- 
dred dollars,  and  a  few  hours  later  he  was  as  merry  as  a 


SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN.  xxiii 

brook  in  spring-time.  One  of  his  favorite  haunts  was 
the  old  Hone  house,  in  Broadway,  at  the  southeast  cor- 
ner of  Great  Jones  Street ;  and  there,  under  very  similar 
circumstances,  in  the  course  of  an  evening,  he  produced 
the  ringing  poem  of  "  The  Lost  Steamship."  His  story 
of  "  What  Was  It  1 "  was  written  at  odd  moments,  in  the 
lodging  of  his  friend  Aldrich,  in  Clinton  Place.  These 
details  have  a  trivial  sound,  but  somehow  they  help  to 
give  a  lifelike  picture  of  the  man,  —  displaying,  back  of 
the  strange  circumstances  under  which  his  literature  was 
produced,  the  still  stranger  nature  that  produced  it. 

The  burden  laid  upon  the  poet  is,  that  he  must  feel 
and  express  the  great  and  varied  elemental  passions  of 
humanity,  yet  never  himself  depart  from  the  perfect 
poise  of  a  sane  and  decorous  life.  All  literary  history  is 
the  narrative  of  his  endeavor,  with  a  greater  or  less  de- 
gree of  failure,  to  achieve  this  perfect  result.  All  literary 
criticism  abounds  in  censure  of  him  because  —  being  a 
man  and  not  a  god  —  he  falls  short  of  his  object.  Yet 
through  the  everlasting  march  of  the  ages  he  still  strives 
onward  ;  still  obeys  his  inexorable  fate ;  still  tries  to  utter 
for  all  mankind  the  voice  of  the  universal  heart ;  and 
still,  amid  the  flying  echoes  of  his  own  celestial  music,  he 
may  stray  into  sin  and  sorrow,  he  may  faint  and  falter  by 
the  way,  and  so  drop  into  a  lamentable  grave.  O'Brien 
was  in  no  wise  more  successful  than  some  others  of  his 
kind.  He  fulfilled  his  destiny  as  well  as  he  could.  The 
attrition  of  his  character  with  his  circumstances  devel- 
oped faults  and  impelled  to  errors.  He  was,  personally, 
very  far  from  being  a  perfect  creature.  He  was  not 
deficient  in  moral  sense ;  on  the  contrary,  his  perception 
of  right  and  wrong  was  uncommonly  keen ;  but  he  was 
deficient  in  moral  courage  and  in  stability  of  principle, 


xxiv  SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN. 

and  what  was  originally  noble  in  his  moral  nature  had 
been  to  some  extent  marred,  though  not  spoiled,  by  con- 
viviality and  chronic  improvidence.  His  conduct  was 
never  intentionally  wrong,  but  it  was  sometimes  marked 
by  a  heedless  irregularity  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life, 
such  as,  to  many  persons,  is  almost  as  culpable  as  bad 
intention.  He  knew  this,  and  his  realization  of  it  only 
enraged  him  against  his  own  defects.  He  was  at  times 
haughty  and  combative  ;  partly  because  of  his  Hibernian 
blood,  and  partly,  no  doubt,  because  of  his  resentful  con- 
viction that  he  deserved  —  by  his  powers,  his  achieve- 
ments, and  the  possibilities  of  his  mind  and  future  —  a 
higher  position  in  literature  than  had  ever  been  accorded 
to  him.  But,  so  far  as  I  ever  could  learn,  his  faults  and 
errors  did  serious  injury  to  no  one  but  himself;  while  for 
the  creation  of  literature  he  was,  in  the  hands  of  Fate, 
a  magnificent  instrument.  There  was  such  a  breezy  au- 
dacity in  his  genius,  that,  thinking  of  him  after  all  these 
years,  I  feel  a  thrill  of  barbaric  joy,  as  if  youth  itself  were 
come  back.  He  was  like  a  giant  oak,  responsive  to  the 
midnight  gale,  and  exultant  in  its  rage.  He  was  like 
the  ocean  swept  by  the  tempest,  that  answers  with  clarion 
tumult  and  savage  delight.  He  never  paltered  with  life, 
nor  fawned  on  the  tedious  little  self-constituted  poten- 
tates with  whom  the  avenues  of  society  are  infested. 
He  did  not  approach  literature  with  timid  deprecation, 
but  he  fronted  his  work  royally,  and  he  performed  it. 
He  spoke  his  mind,  and  he  neither  valued  life  nor  feared 
death.  Thus  constituted,  —  sensitive  to  the  grandest 
influences  of  nature  and  the  tenderest  touch  of  art,  — 
the  mystic  spirit  that  is  in  creation  could  play  upon  him 
at  its  will,  and  sound  what  stops  it  pleased.  Time,  no 
doubt,  would  have  improved  this  organ  of  the  Muse,  — 


SKETCH   OF   O'BRIEN.  XXV 

would  have  broadened  and  mellowed  its  tones,  and  made 
it  vocal  with  yet  more  heavenly  emotion.  The  noble 
instrument  was  too  soon  broken ;  the  life  that  promised 
so  much  was  too  soon  quenched  in  the  darkness  of  the 
grave.  Nevertheless,  in  what  was  uttered  —  and  is  now 
preserved  —  there  lives  a  rich  and  buoyant  power,  and  a 
wonderful  soul  of  beauty.  Here,  garnered  in  his  pages, 
are  rich  creations  of  the  imagination,  splendid  or  som- 
bre pictures,  original  conceptions  of  character,  rare  bits  of 
description,  fine  strokes  of  analysis  of  life,  strong  paeans 
of  joy,  and  sad  wails  of  grief.  Here  is  the  eloquent  and 
beautiful  manifestation  of  a  genius,  broad  in  its  scope, 
affluent  in  its  tide,  adequate  in  its  strength,  brilliant 
in  its  splendor,  gentle  and  humane  in  its  teaching  and 
influence.  Such  works  are  the  best  interpreters  of  their 
own  beneficence.  There  is  no  end  and  no  measure  to 
the  good  that  literature  accomplishes  when,  through  the 
ministration  of  beauty,  it  helps  to  free  our  souls  from 
the  hard  conditions  under  which  life  is  imposed  upon  the 
human  race. 

The  venerable  Sheltou  Mackenzie,  in  a  gracious  and 
tender  letter,  responsive  to  inquiries  of  mine,  refers  to 
O'Brien's  death,  in  these  words  :  "  To  die  on  the  field  of 
honor,  under  the  flag  of  his  adopted  country,  was  just 
the  doom  his  gallant  spirit  would  have  craved."  It  was 
the  doom  reserved  for  him,  and  he  met  it  bravely  and 
well.  He  was  a  lover  of  liberty  and  the  rights  of  man, 
and  a  stanch,  unfaltering  advocate  of  the  principle  of 
Union  in  the  American  Republic.  When  the  war  broke 
out,  in  1861,  accordingly,  he  joined  the  Seventh  Regiment 
of  the  National  Guard  of  New  York,  in  the  hope  of  being 
sent  to  the  front,  and  he  was  in  camp  with  that  regiment 
at  Washington  for  six  weeks.  "A  brilliant,  dashing  fel- 


xx vi  SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN. 

low,"  writes  Colonel  Emmons  Clark,  "  very  brave,  and  a 
universal  favorite.  He  never  in  any  way  did  anything  to 
hurt  the  good  name  of  the  regiment.  He  held  the  rank 
of  Captain,  and  is  so  entered  on  our  regimental  roll  of 
honor."  When  the  Seventh  came  home  he  left  it  and 
for  a  time  was  occupied  in  gathering  recruits  for  a  volun- 
teer regiment,  to  be  called  the  McClellan  Rifles.  He 
subsequently  received  an  appointment  on  the  staff  of 
General  Lander,*  and  at  once  repaired  to  the  scene  of 
conflict  in  Virginia.  His  period  of  active  military  service 
was  brief,  but  he  distinguished  himself  by  energy  and 
valor.  On  the  26th  of  February,  1862,  in  a  skirmish 
with  Colonel  Ashley's  cavalry,  he  was  shot,  and  severely 
wounded.  He  lingered  till  the  6th  of  April,  when  he 
died.  His  death  occurred  at  Cumberland,  Virginia,  His 
body  was  brought  home,  and  buried  with  military  honors. 

*  There  is  but  a  meagre  and  imperfect  record,  at  the  War  Depart- 
ment, in  Washington,  (though  a  strictly  official  one,  and  no  doubt 
correct  as  far  as  it  goes,)  of  O'Brien's  military  career.  T.  B.  Aldrich 
and  O'Brien  applied  at  nearly  the  same  time  for  a  place  on  General 
Lander's  staff.  The  application  of  Aldrich  —  an  old  friend  of  Gen- 
eral Lander's  —  was  a  few  days  in  advance  of  that  of  O'Brien. 
General  Lander  sent  a  telegram  to  Aldrich,  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H., 
offering  to  him  a  staff  appointment,  with  the  rank  of  Lieutenant. 
In  the  meanwhile,  Aldrich  had  left  Portsmouth,  and  the  telegram 
remained  there,  unopened  and  unregarded.  Thereupon  General 
Lander,  receiving  no  answer,  gave  the  post  to  O'Brien,  who  shortly 
afterwards  was  killed.  Old  Henry  Clapp  used  dryly  to  say  that 
"Aldrich  was  shot  in  O'Brien's  shoulder." 

That  O'Brien  received  this  appointment  is  certain  ;  but,  being 
already  in  the  field,  he  was  not  formally  mustered  in,  and  he  was 
killed  before  his  commission  had  been  signed  :  hence  the  meagreness 
of  the  official  record  at  the  War  Department.  Writing  from  "  Camp 
Kelly,"  Virginia,  January  21st,  1862,  to  his  friend  Mr.  Thomas  E. 
Davis,  O'Brien  says  :  "  I  am  in  harness,  and  am  staff  officer  of  pa- 
rade, and  am  already  intrusted  with  the  rather  arduous  but  important 


SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN.  xxvii 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  in  life  he  took  from  my  hand  a 
copy  of. Shirley  Brooks's  novel  of  "  The  Silver  Cord."  He 
was  going  to  the  front.  The  next  time  I  saw  him  he 
was  in  his  coffin.  The  silver  cord  had  been  loosed,  and 
the  stormy  heart  of  the  poet-soldier  was  at  rest.  Even  in 
death  his  countenance  wore  its  old  expression  of  defiant 
endurance.  His  funeral  was  held  in  the  armory  of  the 
Seventh  Kegiment.  The  silver-haired  veteran  Wallack, 
leaning  on  Lester's  arm,  his  pale,  handsome  face  wet 
with  tears,  stood  beside  the  bier;  and  round  them  were 
clustered  many  of  O'Brien's  comrades,  now  likewise  dead 
and  gone.  With  muffled  drums  and  martial  dirges  we 
bore  him  to  Greenwood  Cemetery,  and  there  a  guard  of 
honor  fired  its  volley  over  his  tomb,  and,  with  a  few 
flowers  from  the  loving  hand  of  poor  Matilda  Heron,  we 
left  him  forever.  There  his  ashes  still  rest ;  *  and  there, 

duty  of  posting  the  pickets  all  through  this  devil  of  a  wilderness. 
Address  to  me  always  as  A.  D.  C.,  General  Lander's  Brigade." 

"  My  impression  is,"  writes  General  McClellan,  "that  Mr.  O'Brien 
served  with  Lander  as  a  volunteer  aid."  This  in  the  absence  of  a 
regular  commission  would  be  his  rank.  He  gave  his  life  without 
price. 

In  the  Xew  American  Cyclopaedia,  annual  volume,  for  1862,  on 
page  543,  occurs  the  following  reference  to  the  exploit  at  Bloomery 
Gap,  in  which  O'Brien  participated  :  "  In  this  brilliant  dash  the 
Confederate  commander  and  his  staff  surrendered  to  General  Lander, 
who,  with  a  single  aid,  had  outridden  the  rest  of  the  force,  and, 
coming  upon  them  at  full  gallop,  demanded  their  swords."  The 
"single  aid"  was  O'Brien. — ED. 

*  The  remains  of  O'Brien  were  placed,  at  first,  in  the  receiving 
tomb  at  Greenwood,  but  on  November  27,  1874,  were  removed  and 
buried  in  the  earth.  His  grave  is  number  1183,  in  lot  number 
17.263,  in  that  cemetery.  At  the  funeral  of  O'Brien,  Frank  Wood, 
T.  B.  Aldrich,  Edward  F.  Mullen  (the  quaint,  original  artist  of 
Vanity  Fair),  and  I  rode  in  a  coach  together,  and  "Wood  (now 
dead)  carried  O'Brien's  sword.  — ED. 


xxviii  SKETCH  OF  O'BRIEN. 

in  time  to  come,  will  many  a  pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of 
genius  and  of  noble  valor  lay  the  chaplet  of  remembrance 
on  the  grave  of  Fitz-James  O'Brien. 


WILLIAM  WINTER. 


FORT  HILL,  NEW  BRIGHTON,  STATEN  ISLAND, 
October  19th,  1880. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   O'BRIEN. 

BY  SEVERAL  WRITERS. 


"/  remember  him  well;  and  I  remember  him  worthy  of  thy 
praise." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


O'BEIEN  IN  HIS   LAST  DAYS. 


MY  DEAR  WINTER:  — 

An  effort  to  rescue  O'Brien's  name,  with  honor,  from 
oblivion,  interests  me  immensely,  and  I  am  confident 
that  such  a  work,  undertaken  by  you,  will  successfully 
realize  its  promise.  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure 
to  bring  to  you  all  the  papers  that  I  possess  referring 
to  O'Brien,  and  to  talk  over  our  friend  with  you.  Your 
letter,  advising  me  of  your  project,  was  forwarded  to  my 
address  at  Paris,  and  has  just  been  returned  to  me  here. 
You  have  my  heartiest  sympathy  in  the  work  that  you 
have  undertaken,  and  I  rejoice  that  it  will  at  last  be 
accomplished. 

Shortly  after  O'Brien's  death  I  consulted  with  my  asso- 
ciate executor,  Frank  Wood,  as  to  the  course  of  action 
proper  for  us  to  pursue ;  and  it  was  agreed  that,  as  he  was 
more  devoted  than  I  to  literary  pursuits,  all  of  O'Brien's 
papers  that  were  possessed  by  me  should  be  given  to  him, 
and  he  should  write  a  memoir,  and  make  a*  selection  of  the 
writings  for  publication,  subject  to  my  approval.  I  gave 
to  him  thereupon  everything  of  O'Brien's  that  I  then 
had,  —  even  private  letters.  My  reliance  on  his  ability 
to  do  this  work  was  complete,  and  no  doubt  he  would 
have  done  it  had  he  lived.  Ill-health  came  upon  me 
shortly  after  this,  and  drove  me  to  Europe,  and  I  never 


xxxii  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

heard  of  him  again  —  except  the  news  of  his  death.  I 
have  been  for  many  years  a  resident  abroad,  and  occu- 
pied by  engrossing  duties.  I  have  made  many  and  ear- 
nest inquiries  as  to  the  fate  of  the  papers  delivered 
to  Wood,  but  could  never  ascertain  what  befell  them. 
Among  them  was  O'Brien's  last  letter,  written  to  me 
on  his  death-bed. 

While  I  was  in  Europe  I  met  O'Brien's  mother  (Mrs. 
De  Courcy  O'Grady,  she  having  married  again,  some  time 
after  the  death  of  O'Brien's  father,  and  when  O'Brien 
was  still  a  lad),  and  she  expressed  great  affection  for  her 
lost  boy,  and  deep  interest  in  the  idea  of  publishing  his 
works.  I  intimated  to  her  —  as  you  have  intimated  to 
me  —  that,  in  case  the  book  should  succeed,  a  suitable 
monument  would  be  erected  over  O'Brien's  grave.  I 
am  glad  you  have  this  design  in  view.  My  path  has 
been  strewn  with  difficulties,  and  you  are  doing  me  a  real 
service  in  taking  up  this  work. 

My  knowledge  of  O'Brien  was  confined  to  the  latter 
part  of  his  life.  He  and  I  were  engaged  in  raising  a 
regiment,  to  be  known  as  the  McClellan  Rifles,  and  we 
made  a  good  start  in  this  business;  but  I  found  myself 
unable  to  bear  the  exposure  of  the  camp,  and  so  left  the 
affair  to  him.  He  was  about  this  time  involved  in  what 
might  have  proved  a  serious  trouble,  —  though  he  was 
entirely  in  the  right.  He  was  attacked  by  an  inferior 
officer,  absent  without  leave  from  camp,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled, in  self-defence,  to  fire  upon  him ;  and  the  man  — 
a  mutinous,  abusive,  dangerous  person  —  was  hurt,  but 
ultimately  he  recovered.  O'Brien  lived  in  my  house,  at 
Staten  Island,  for  some  time  after  this  event,  and  it  was 
there  that  he  wrote  his  poem  of  "A  Soldier's  Letter," 
which  he  read  to  me  just  after  completing  it. 


HIS  LAST  DAYS.  xxxiii 

I  never  enjoyed  anything  more  than  hearing  him  read 
his  own  writings.  He  was  truly  a  manly  fellow,  an  in- 
tensely live  man,  in  look,  bearing,  and  manner :  yet  on 
these  occasions  he  would  become  subdued  to  such  exquisite 
softness  by  the  deep  pathos  of  his  words,  —  arousing  the 
delicate,  womanly  sensibility  which  formed  a  large  part  of 
his  hidden  character,  —  that  you  neither  saw  nor  heard 
the  every-day  man.  In  person  he  was  just  above  the 
middle  height,  strong,  and  well  made.  His  eyes  were 
blue ;  the  lids  hung  mournfully  over  them,  giving  them 
that  peculiarly  melancholy  appearance  which  has  often 
been  ascribed  to  those  who  are  destined  to  a  violent  death. 
When  he  was  excited  and  in  good  spirits  this  expression 
would  disappear,  and  his  eyes  would  dance  with  glee. 
He  had  led  a  wandering  life  in  New  York  before  I  knew 
him,  and  his  carelessness  in  worldly  matters  had  alienated 
the  good  opinion  of  vpersons  who  would  gladly  have  been 
his  friends.  Before  he  went  on  what  proved  his  death- 
trip  to  General  Lander,  he  promised  that  on  his  return 
he  would  settle  down  with  me,  and  devote  himself  to  the 
production  of  something  in  literature  that  might  live. 
He  had  "  a  great  work,"  he  said,  prepared  in  his  mind, 
which  he  had  "  thought  out  through  years  of  thinking," 
and  this  he  would  write  when  his  soldiering  was  over. 

There  was  an  exceedingly  humorous  side  to  O'Brien's 
character,  —  his  Celtic  alacrity  for  combat  being  not  the 
least  comic  of  his  peculiarities.  Donald  McLeod,  author 
of  "  Pynnshurst,"  was  once  O'Brien's  comrade,  and  they 
slept  in  the  same  bed.  One  night,  just  after  they  had 
retired,  a  fierce  discussion  arose  between  them  with  ref- 
erence to  Scotch  and  Irish  nationality,  and  O'Brien 
uttered  opinions  which  his  Scotch  companion  could  not 
brook.  "  I  '11  not  allow  this,"  cried  McLeod.  "  Do  as 


xxxiv  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

you  please  about  that,"  said  O'Brien.  "  I  '11  demand  sat- 
isfaction, sir  ! "  roared  McLeod.  "  Very  well,"  answered 
Fitz-James,  —  equally  enraged  and  belligerent,  and  pull- 
ing the  blanket  well  over  himself,  —  "  very  well,  sir ;  you 
know  where  to  find  me  in  the  morning."  This  last  explo- 
sion, though  intended  in  deadly  sincerity,  had  the  effect 
of  turning  the  quarrel  to  laughter,  and  so  made  an  end 
of  it. 

O'Brien,  at  one  time,  began  to  collect  his  scattered  writ- 
ings, with  a  view  to  their  publication  in  a  volume  ;  and  he 
made  a  title-page  and  a  list  of  pieces.  He  liked  his  story 
of  "The  Golden  Ingot"  and  his  unfinished  ballad  of  "Amy 
Scudder."  I  have  seen  two  plays  of  his  in  manuscript, 
entitled  "  The  Two  Ophelias,"  and  "  Blood  will  Tell."  He 
was  proficient  in  the  French  language,  and,  in  particular, 
he  habitually  read  every  French  play  that  appeared.  His 
learning,  with  reference  to  many  subjects,  seemed  ample 
and  minute,  and  when  he  chose  to  speak  of  literary  affairs 
he  enthralled  the  listener  with  his  eloquence.  There  was 
great  sweetness  in  his  nature,  and  under  happier  circum- 
stances his  life,  I  think,  would  have  been  free  from  those 
asperities  and  blemishes  which  caused  him  to  be  much 
censured.  He  was  a  devoted  patriot,  and  he  went  into 
the  war  with  ardent  zeal.  When  he  was  leaving  New 
York  to  join  General  Lander,  we  dined  together,  and 
parted  for  the  last  time.  "  I  can  say  nothing  to  you,"  he 
said,  "  but  you  know  where  my  heart  is."  I  did,  —  and  it 
was  in  the  right  place. 

He  died  at  the  home  of  Mr.  George  A.  Thurston,  at 
Cumberland,  Maryland,  April  6th,  1862,  —  seven  weeks 
after  he  received  his  death-wound  in  battle.  He  bore  his 
illness  well  and  met  his  death  with  fortitude.  Mr.  Thurs- 
tou,  from  whom  he  received  every  kindness,  wrote  to  me, 


O'BRIEN  RECRUITING. 
From  a  Caricature  by  Mullen  in  "  Vanity  Fair.' 


HIS  LAST  DAYS.  xxxv 

April  1st,  as  follows  :  "Mr.  O'Brien  was  this  morning  seized 
with  tetanus,  and,  though  so  far  the  symptoms  are  mild, 
he  yet  is  so  reduced  physically  by  his  long  illness  and  the 
painful  character  of  his  wound  that  we  have  cause  to  fear 
he  cannot  recover.  He  is  aware  of  his  danger,  and  meets  it 
in  the  most  manly  way ;  indeed  he  has  never  been  hopeful 
from  the  first.  I  write  to  his  mother  to-day,  advising  her 
of  his  danger,  and  the  causes  which  led  to  it,  and  I  think 
this  should  have  been  done  long  since.  But  he  was  so 
averse  to  her  knowing  anything  of  the  trouble  that  he 
would  neither  write  himself  nor  permit  any  one  to  write 
for  him."  A  little  later  Mr.  Thurston  wrote  again,  an- 
nouncing the  end  :  "  We  did  all  in  our  power  for  the 
poor  fellow,  and  in  fact  I  may  say  we  were  fortunate 
enough  to  give  him  everything  that  he  desired  or  his  sur- 
geons suggested."  I  was  on  my  way  to  him  when  he 
died,  and  I  brought  home  his  remains  from  Baltimore. 
ThisJeaf  is  all  I  can  add  to  the  garland  you  are  weaving 
for  our  departed  friend. 

Very  sincerely   yours, 

THOMAS  E.  DAVIS. 

No.  82  NASSAU  STREET,  NEW  YORK, 
October  22d,  1880. 


xxxvi  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 


O'BKIEN  AS   POET  AND   SOLDIER* 


IT  is  with  a  heart  heavy  laden  that  I  sit  down  to  write 
of  the  friend  who  is  gone.  The  feeling  that  one  whom 
we  have  loved  will  never  look  upon  us  in  life  again  sel- 
dom comes  save  when  the  last  mournful  tributes  to  the 
departed  have  been  paid,  and  the  door  of  the  charnel- 
house  is  closed  forever  upon  him.  And  especially  is 

*  This  tribute  to  O'Brien  was  first  published  in  the  New  York 
Leader,  April  12th,  1862,  having  been  written  for  that  paper  by  its 
author,  who  had  been  appointed  one  of  the  poet's  literary  executors, 
and  who,  had  he  lived,  would  have  fulfilled,  with  all  his  heart,  the 
task  that  has  been  attempted  by  me  in  this  volume.  Frank  Wood 
died,  in  1864,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three  years.  His  career  as  a 
writer  began  in  Bellew's  Picayune,  and  in  the  publications  of 
Frank  Leslie.  He  subsequently  became  the  first  editor  of  Vanity 
Fair,  and  one  of  the  contributors  to  the  Saturday  Press ;  and 
he  wrote  in  the  Leader  a  series  of  sketches  of  the  pulpit  orators 
of  New  York.  At  a  later  period,  and  just  before  South  Carolina 
revolted  against  the  Union,  he  resided  at  Charleston,  as  correspond- 
ent for  the  World.  On  his  return  he  delivered  a  lecture,  entitled 
"Down  South  in  Secession  Times,"  and  he  edited  a  daily  paper  in 
Brooklyn.  Still  later  he  wrote  theatrical  notices  for  the  Illustrated 
News,  and  during  about  six  months  occupied  the  position  of  night 
editor  of  the  Journal  of  Commerce.  For  a  time  also  he  was  a 
dramatic  critic  for  the  Spirit  of  tlie  Titties.  Nor  did  he  confine 
his  labors  exclusively  to  journalism.  He  was  the  translator  of 
Michelet's  "  L' Amour."  His  burlesque  of  "Leah  the  Forsook" 


AS  POET  AND  SOLDIER.  xxxvii 

this  so  in  the  case  of  O'Brien.  He  was  such  a  live  man 
that  it  is  hard  to  think  of  him  as  dead.  We  who  were 
his  friends  could  scarcely  realize,  at  first,  that  the  bright 
and  genial  nature  had  been  blotted  out  of  existence,  and 
we  would  not  see  the  dark  shadow  that  had  crept  in 
where  before  the  sunshine  fell.  The  truth  comes  to  us 
now  with  a  double  bitterness.  The  cheerful  face,  the 
good,  kind  heart,  the  brilliant  wit  that  was  a  part  of  him, 
have  all  gone  from  us,  never  to  return. 

The  biography  of  our  friend  cannot  be  fully  written 
now,  and  I  reserve  the  honorable  task  for  a  future  day, 
purposing  here  to  give  the  merest  outline  of  his  literary 
career  and  pass  to  the  military  experiences  which  marked 
the  last  year  of  his  life. 

Fitz-James  O'Brien  was  born  in  Ireland,  in  the  year 
1830.*  His  family  was  one  of  the  highest  in  the  land. 

is  remembered  as  a  clever  piece  of  its  kind.  He  wrote  also  a 
burlesque  called  "  The  Statue  Bride,"  and  he  was  one  of  the  adapt- 
ers of  "  Taming  a  Butterfly."  As  a  writer,  he  was  clear,  vigor- 
ous, often  humorous,  always  manly  and  truthful.  As  a  man,  he 
met  frankness  with  frankness,  and  did  his  duty  faithfully,  and 
gained  true  friends  who  do  not  forget  him.  He  was  taken  away 
in  the  spring-time  of  his  life,  and  the  promise  of  his  young  days 
is  therefore  a  tender  memory.  His  name  is  added  to  those  of  other 
vanished  comrades, — Symonds,  Wilkins,  O'Brien,  Neill,  and  the 
rest,  —  not  to  be  spoken  without  a  sigh  of  regret.  His  death  took 
place  at  Haverstraw,  Rockland  County,  New  York,  and  his  grave 
is  at  Auburn,  where  he  was  born. 

"  Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain  summits, 

Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 

From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  laud  ! " —  ED. 

*  This  would  make  him  but  thirty-two  when  he  died.  The 
general  impression  in  our  circle  was  that  he  was  older.  I  do  not 
kiiow  whether  Wood  had  positive  authority  for  this  date.  He  was 


xxxviii  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

Fitz-James  was  a  cousin  of  the  present  Lord  Fermoy, 
and  was  also  related  to  the  distinguished  Irish  patriot, 
Smith  O'Brien.  The  boy  never  had  brothers  or  sisters, 
and  was  left  a  half-orphan,  when  about  twelve  years  of 
age,  by  the  death  of  his  father.  After  a  considerable 

somewhat  mistaken,  according  to  my  information,  with  reference  to 
O'Brien's  family  and  early  life,  and  first  attempts  in  literature.  The 
statement  that  the  poet  was  related  to  Smith  O'Brien,  the  Irish 
agitator,  was  first  published  by  the  late  Charles  F.  Br'iggs,  in  the 
New  York  Times,  and  it  was  coupled  with  the  equally  erroneous 
assertion  that  Fitz-James  was  heir  to  the  title  and  estate  of  Lord 
Inchiquin,  Smith  O'Brien's  brother.  When  Smith  O'Brien  was  in 
New  York,  Fitz-James  did  not  call  on  him  ;  and,  as  I  am  informed 
by  Mr.  Bellew,  that  visitor  stated,  in  answer  to  a  direct  inquiry,  that 
Fitz-James  was  not  in  any  way  related  to  him.  The  fact  is,  I 
believe,  that  this  was  a  hoax  ;  and  it  may  have  been  invented 
by  O'Brien's  satirist,  Mr.  William  North,  author  of  "The  Man  of 
the  World,"  etc.,  who  lampooned  him  under  the  name  of  Fitz-Gam- 
mon  0' Bouncer.  Or  it  may  have  originated  with  Mr.  Briggs  him- 
self, who  disliked  O'Brien  with  all  that  cordiality  of  sentiment 
of  which  he  was  so  capable.  O'Brien's  title  of  "Baron  Inchiquin," 
I  remember,  was  a  joke  among  his  acquaintances.  I  never  heard 
him  speak  of  the  subject.  There  is  a  story  that,  when  on  his 
death-bed,  he  received  a  costly  jewel  labelled,  "  From  the  Baroness 
of  Inchiquin."  It  was  no  doubt  part  of  the  same  folly.  Mr. 
Briggs  said,  in  the  presence  of  Dr.  Mackenzie,  that  O'Brien,  in 
conversation  with  him,  had  claimed  to  have  been  an  officer  in 
the  Guards.  This,  I  surmise,  was  either  a  misunderstanding  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Briggs,  or  a  bit  of  serious  waggery  on  the  part  of 
O'Brien,  who  liked  to  amuse  himself  by  ascertaining  how  much 
certain  solemn  persons  would  believe.  Thus,  on  one  occasion, 
at  table  in  the  Manhattan  Club,  when  the  overwhelming  Count 
Gurowski  was  shouting  forth  his  knowledge  of  court  etiquette, 
O'Brien  dissented  from  that  nobleman's  views,  and  was  promptly 
challenged  for  his  authority  by  the  growling  and  spluttering  diplo- 
matist. To  this  he  replied,  with  entire  gravity,  "  I  was  for  several 
months  a  resident  at  the  Court  of  St.  James,  as  maid  of  honor  to 
the  Queen."  —  Nor  was  O'Brien  related  to  Lord  Fermoy.  —  ED. 


AS  POET  AND  SOLDIER.  xxxix 

time  his  mother  married  again,  and  became  Mrs.  DeCourcy 
O'Grady. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  Fitz-James  was  sent  to  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  where  he  acquired  that  solid  education 
that  served  him  in  such  good  stead  afterwards.  Shortly 
after  his  graduation  he  came  to  New  York,  where  he 
made  his  first  essay  in  literature,  in  the  shape  of  an  arti- 
cle for  the  Lantern,  a  comic  journal  edited  by  John 
Brougham.  Brougham  saw  that  O'Brien  was  a  valuable 
man  to  have  on  the  Lantern  staff,  and  the  young  author, 
before  he  had  time  to  recover  from  the  surprise  his  suc- 
cess caused  him,  was  engaged  as  a  regular  contributor 
to  the  paper.  When  the  Lantern  expired,  O'Brien  was 
tendered  a  position  as  editorial  writer  on  the  Times,  by 
Mr.  Raymond,  who  appreciated  his  genius  from  the  first. 
While  connected  with  the  Times  O'Brien  wrote  for  the 
various  periodicals  of  the  day,  —  Harper's  Magazine, 
Putnam 's  Monthly,  etc.,  —  contributing  to  them  some  of 
his  finest  tales  and  poems.  In  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
during  the  first  year  of  its  existence,  he  published  his 
marvellous  story,  "  The  Diamond  Lens,"  which  holds  its 
place  now  in  literature  (and  ever  will),  as  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  creations  of  imagination.  He  was  more 
constant  in  his  contributions  to  Harper's  Magazine  than 
to  any  other  periodical,  and  wrote  for  it,  during  the  year 
past,  the  finest  poems  (with  one  exception)  that  have 
been  written  relative  to  the  present  war.  I  need  only  re- 
fer to  the  titles  of  some  of  these,  such  as  "The  Counter- 
sign," "A  Soldier's  Letter,"  and  "  The  Prisoner  of  War," 
to  bring  every  one  to  my  opinion  in  this  matter.  O'Brien's 
ready  wit  and  large  sense  of  humor  also  found  a  field  in 
the  columns  of  Vanity  Fair,  and  the  last  article  he  ever 
wrote  was  printed  in  that  paper. 


xl  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

It  was  with  a  presentiment  as  to  the  tarn  secession 
would  take,  that,  in  January,  1861,  O'Brien  joined  the 
New  York  Seventh  Regiment.  Three  months  later  he 
marched  off  in  its  ranks  to  the  defence  of  Washington, 
and,  on  arriving  there,  wrote  the  most  graphic  narrative 
of  that  memorable  expedition  extant.  When  the  month 
for  which  they  volunteered  had  expired,  it  will  be  re- 
membered, there  was  a  division  of  sentiment  in  the  regi- 
ment, as  to  the  question  of  coming  home.  O'Brien  was 
very  decidedly  among  those  who  desired  to  stay,  but 
other  counsels  prevailed,  and  the  Seventh  came  back  to 
New  York.  Rendered,  as  it  were,  more  thirsty  than 
ever  by  this  sip  from  the  cup  of  martial  life,  O'Brien, 
immediately  on  his  return,  interested  himself,  with  some 
of  his  comrades,  in  the  formation  of  a  volunteer  regi- 
ment, in  which  he  himself  was  «to  hold  the  post  of  Cap- 
tain. But  at  this  time  the  people's  first  patriotic  spasm 
had  passed,  the  Union  army  seemed  to  have  as  many 
men  as  was  necessary,  and  recruits  to  the  new  regi- 
ment came  in  but  slowly.  The  enterprise  languished, 
and  O'Brien  left  the  regiment  to  join  another  which 
promised  better,  but  which  was  in  its  turn  abandoned. 
In  this  manner  the  summer  and  part  of  the  fall  were 
passed.  All  this  time  O'Brien  was  chafing  like  a  caged 
eagle.  Sick,  finally,  of  these  vexatious  delays,  and  im- 
patient for  active  service  in  the  field,  he  gave  up  all  idea 
of  going  with  a  complete  regiment  to  the  war,  and  went 
to  Washington  to  get,  if  possible,  a  position  on  some 
general's  staff.  In  this  he  was  at  first  unsuccessful.  He 
now  returned  to  New  York  as  disconsolate  as  it  was  pos- 
sible for  one  of  his  sunny  nature  to  be.  At  last,  in  Jan- 
uary of  the  present  year  (1862),  a  summons  came  from 
General  Lander  containing  the  much  desired  appoint- 


AS  POET  AND  SOLDIER.  xli 

ment.  O'Brien  was  instantly  lifted  from  the  depths  of 
melancholy  to  the  acme  of  joy.  The  next  day  he  set 
out  for  Lander's  department,  happy  and  joyful,  and  after 
many  tribulations  and  difficulties  succeeded  yi  reaching 
his  command.  O'Brien's  dashing  energy  and  brilliant 
soldierly  qualities  soon  endeared  him  to  the  General, 
whose  death  a  nation  has  since  mourned. 

At  the  battle  of  Bloomery  Gap  he  rendered  Lander  a 
valuable  assistance.  In  the  intention  of  surprising  the 
enemy,  Lander  moved  seven  regiments  and  five  hun- 
dred cavalry  on  the  Gap,  about  fourteen  miles  from 
his  own  camp,  during  the  night.  They  arrived  on  the 
ground  at  five  o'clock  the  next  morning,  but  for  some 
hours  there  was  no  sign  of  the  rebels.  Every  one  was 
in  despair,  when  an  action  began  in  the  rear  of  the 
column.  Lander  jumped  upon  his  horse,  O'Brien  did 
the  same,  and  the  two  rode  off  like  the  wind  toward 
the  scene  of  battle.  As  they  flew  down  the  road,  an 
ambuscade  on  the  left  opened  on  them,  when  the  Gen- 
eral immediately  dashed  up  a  hill,  calling  for  some 
sixty  cavalry  to  follow  him.  Through  fear  or  from  a 
misapprehension  of  the  order  only  two  obeyed.  Lander, 
O'Brien,  and  these  two  men  charged  up  the  hill,  in  the 
face  of  a  deadly  rifle  fire,  and  cut  the  ambuscade  off. 
The  General  captured  the  rebel  Colonel  Baldwin,  while 
Captain  Baird,  Assistant  Adjutant-General  of  the  Six- 
teenth Brigade,  and  attached  to  General  Carson's  staff, 
with  eight  others,  surrendered  to  O'Brien,  who  kept  the 
Captain's  sword  and  accoutrements  as  trophies.  The 
general  engagement  lasted  about  an  hour,  and  resulted 
in  the  capture  of  sixty-one  prisoners,  seventeen  of  whom 
were  officers.  For  the  bravery  displayed  in  this  affair, 
General  Lander  made  special  and  honorable  mention- 


xlii  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

of  Lieutenant  O'Brien  in  his  despatch  to  General  Mc- 
Clellan. 

Two  days  after  this,  on  the  16th  of  February,  O'Brien 
was  sent  out  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  with  a  cav- 
alry company,  to  capture  a  hundred  head  of  cattle  be- 
longing to  the  secessionists.  The  expedition  resulted 
in  a  skirmish  with  the  enemy,  in  which  O'Brien's  little 
force  of  thirty-five  cavalry  was  pitted  against  one  hundred 
and  fifty  rebel  infantry  and  sixty  of  Jackson's  regular 
cavalry.  The  enemy  fell  upon  our  advance  from  behind 
a  bluff,  and  the  advance  tame  galloping  back  to  the  main 
body,  after  having  fired  a  few  random  shots.  Nothing 
daunted  by  the  enemy's  superiority  in  numbers,  our  young 
lieutenant  immediately  charged  upon  them  with  his  men, 
who  were  a  little  irresolute,  as  there  was  a  cross-fire  from 
the  hillside,  in  addition  to  the  cavalry  fire  from  the  road. 
As  they  rode  forward,  the  rebel  officer  held  up  his  hand 
and  cried,  "  Halt !  who  are  you  1 "  O'Brien  shouted  back 
in  reply,.  "  Union  soldiers  !  "  and  fired  at  him.  This  was 
the  signal  for  a  general  engagement.  The  rebels  could 
easily  have  captured  so  small  a  party ;  but  O'Brien's  on- 
slaught was  so  audacious  that  they  thought  he  must  have 
reserves  somewhere.  As  it  was,  our  side  came  off  un- 
harmed (with  one  exception),  having  killed  two  of  the 
enemy,  and  wounded  four. 

The  exception  was  O'Brien.  His  encounter  with  the 
rebel  colonel,  Ashley,  was  a  regular  duel.  They  were 
about  twenty  paces  asunder,  and  fired,  with  great  delibera- 
tion, three  shots ;  O'Brien  was  hit  by  the  second  shot, 
and  his  men  aver  that  he  killed  Ashley  with  his  last,  as 
that  officer  fell  when  he  fired.  The  ball  passed  com- 
pletely through  O'Brien's  left  shoulder,  splintering  his 
•scapular  bone.  Although  wounded  he  still  continued  to 


AS  POET   AND  SOLDIER.  xliii 

rally  his  men,  until  a  subordinate  officer,  seeing  him  reel- 
ing in  his  saddle  from  loss  of  blood,  got  him  to  the  rear, 
after  which  he  brought  our  men  off.  In  a  state  of  weak- 
ness and  agony,  O'Brien  was  now  obliged  to  ride  twenty- 
four  miles,  but  he  passed  through  the  ordeal  like  a  hero. 
His  gratification  may  be  conceived  when,  the  next  day, 
there  came  the  following  despatch  from  General  McClel- 
lan  :  — 

"  GENERAL  LANDER,  —  Please  say  to  Lieutenant  O'Brien 
that  I  am  much  pleased  with  his  gallantry,  and  deeply 
pained  to  hear  of  his  wound.  I  trust  he  will  soon  be 
well  enough  to  give  the  cause  the  benefit  of  his  services 
again.  GEORGE  B.  MCCLELLAN." 

The  surgeon  who  took  charge  of  O'Brien  at  first  did  not 
consider  the  wound  a  dangerous  one,  and  the  poor  fellow 
wrote  to  his  friends  here  about  it  in  the  most  cheerful 
strain,  saying  he  should  be  able  to  come  to  New  York 
in  twenty  days  at  the  outside.  But  the  twenty  days 
passed,  and  he  did  not  come.  Still  the  letters  were  as 
cheerful  as  ever,  and  no  one  apprehended  evil  from  the 
delay.  On  Friday,  the  4th  of  April,  Mr.  Thomas  E. 
Davis  received  the  first  news  of  the  alarming  change 
that  had  taken  place,  in  a  pencil  scribble  from  O'Brien 
himself.  On  the  same  day  came  a  more  despondent  letter 
from  Mr.  George  A.  Thurston,  of  Cumberland,  Maryland, 
the  gentleman  at  whose  house  O'Brien  lay  through  his 
long  illness.  It  seems  that  the  first  surgeon  (named 
Maccabe)  had  wholly  mistaken  the  character  of  his  pa- 
tient's wound.  On  the  20th  of  March,  a  surgeon  of 
ability  took  O'Brien's  case  in  hand,  and  on  examination 
found  that  the  joint  of  the  arm  at  the  shoulder  had 
been  smashed  into  a  hundred  fragments.  A  resection 


xliv  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

of  the  joint,  one  of  the  most  difficult  and  dangerous 
operations  in  surgery,  was  the  only  resource.  In  his 
letter  (to  Mr.  Davis)  O'Brien  says  :  — 

"  I  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  told  him  to  go  ahead.  There 
were  about  twelve  surgeons  to  witness  the  operation.  All 
my  shoulder  bone  and  a  portion  of  my  upper  arm  have 
been  taken  away.  I  nearly  died.  My  breath  ceased, 
heart  ceased  to  beat,  pulse  stopped.  However,  I  got 
through.  I  am  not  yet  out  of  danger  from  the  opera- 
tion, but  a  worse  disease  has  set  in.  I  have  got  tetanus, 
or  lock-jaw.  There  is  a  chance  of  my  getting  out  of  it,  — 
that 's  all.  In  case  I  don't,  good-by,  old  fellow,  with  all 
my  love.  I  don't  want  to  make  any  legal  document,  but 
I  desire  that  you  and  Frank  Wood  should  be  my  literary 
executors,  —  because  after  I  'm  dead  I  may  turn  out  a 
bigger  man  than  when  living.*  I  'd  write  more  if  I  could, 
but  I  'm  very  weak.  Write  to  me.  I  may  be  alive. 
Also,  get  Wood  to  write." 

On  the  day  after  the  receipt  of  this  intelligence, 
Mr.  Davis  and  I  started  in  an  early  morning  train  for 
Cumberland.  Arrived  at  Baltimore,  we  learned  to  our 
dismay  that  no  train  would  leave  for  Cumberland  within 
the  next  twenty-four  hours.  We  immediately  telegraphed 
to  Mr.  Thurston,  who  answered  :  "  O'Brien  is  very  low. 
He  is  glad  you  are  coming." 

The  next  morning,  Sunday,  (as  we  afterwards  learned 
from  Drs.  Folsom  and  MacMahon,  the  surgeons  who  were 
with  him  at  the  last,)  O'Brien  felt  a  little  better  than 

*  This  calls  to  mind  the  bitter  words  of  Walter  Savage  Landor, 
in  his  "Examination  of  Shakespeare":  —  "The  worms  must  have 
eaten  us  before  it  is  rightly  shown  what  we  are.  It  is  only  when 
we  are  skeletons  that  we  are  boxed,  and  ticketed,  and  prized,  and 
shown. "  —  ED. 


AS  POET  AND  SOLDIER.  xlv 

usual,  and,  being  helped  up,  sat  for  a  time  on  the  side  of 
his  bed.  Dr.  MacMahon  asked  him  if  he  would  take  a 
glass  of  sherry.  O'Brien  said,  "Yes."  While  slowly 
sipping  the  sherry  he  turned  pale  and  fell  back.  The 
doctors  immediately  dashed  cologne-water  in  his  face,  and 
began  to  fan  him.  But  it  was  too  late.  His  features 
were  set  in  death. 

So  died,  at  the  threshold  of  his  career,  a  true  poet  and 
a  brave  soldier,  —  a  man  of  such  a  kindly  and  charming 
nature  that  he  was  beloved  even  by  his  enemies.  God 
grant  that  the  tidings  be  taken  tenderly  to  the  lone 
mother,  looking  anxiously,  even  at  this  moment  mayhap, 
for  the  bright  words  that  nevermore  will  come  to  her 
from  her  only  boy,  in  the  country  beyond  the  sea ! 

FRANK  WOOD. 


xlvi  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

O'BRIEN'S   PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS. 

[From  the  New-York  Citizen,  September  30,  1865.] 


JOURNALIST  AND    POET. 

AMONG  the  men  of  talent  and  esprit  whom  it  was  my 
good  fortune  to  meet  at  the  long  table  in  Pfaff's  dingy 
cellar  —  hardly  less  known  now  than  that  of  Auerbach  — 
were  two  who,  to  my  judgment,  represented  their  classes 
perfectly ;  the  one  being  a  typical  Journalist,  of  the  ele- 
gant and  successful  kind ;  the  other  being  an  equally 
typical  Poet. 

I  speak  of  E.  G.  P.  WILKINS  and  FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN. 

The  former,  in  the  winter  of  1860-61,  when  he  came  to 
Pfaff's  for  his  cafe  noir,  —  before  going  his  usual  rounds 
of  the  theatres,  or  later  in  the  evening,  —  was  a  tall,  thin 
young  man,  with  stooping  shoulders,  and  a  strikingly 
handsome  face.  His  complexion  was  light ;  his  eyes 
were  intensely  blue  and  expressive,  sometimes  earnestly 
thoughtful,  sometimes  gentle  and  abstracted,  sometimes- 
twinkling  with  -plenitude  of  merriment.  His  features 
were  sharply  cut,  and  thorough-bred  in  mould ;  his  skin, 
clear  and  delicate  ;  his  hair,  which  he  parted  nearly  in 
the  middle  of  a  high  forehead,  was  lustrous. and  wavy; 
and  his  mouth  was  partly  concealed  by  a  well-grown  and 
becoming  mustache,  golden  brown  in  color,  and  remarka- 
bly fine  in  texture.  His  hands  were  long,  thin,  and  deli- 
cate as  a  girl's.  His  dress  was  always  unexceptionable, 
no  matter  what  the  occasion  or  the  season,  though  his 


PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS.  xlvii 

preference  was  generally  for  loose,  rough,  easy  styles, 
which  became  him  wonderfully. 

All  his  appointments  and  surroundings  were  tasteful  and 
plentiful.  He  was  not  a  man  to  go  without  the  things  he 
wanted.  If  he  asked  you  to  his  rooms,  his  decanters 
never  turned  up  unexpectedly  empty.  If  he  was  suddenly 
called  upon  to  go  out  in  the  evening,  he  was  never  without 
suitable  trappings  for  the  occasion.  In  a  word,  he  was 
never  at  fault  for  the  minor  elegances  and  hospitalities  of 
life,  and  his  forethought  and  supervision  in  these  mat- 
ters should  preserve  his  memory  from  the  imputation  of 
*'  Bohemianism." 

Fitz-James  O'Brien  was  cast  in  a  different  mould.  He 
was  shorter  than  Wilkins,  and  far  more  muscular,  being, 
indeed,  a  gymnast  of  some  ability,  and  a  firm  disciple  of 
the  church  of  St.  Biceps.  His  complexion  was  florid  ; 
his  eyes  dark  blue,  with  a  marvellously  winning  expres- 
sion ;  his  chin  very  small,  and  his  mouth  entirely  covered 
by  a  heavy,  brown,  cavalry  mustache.  His  hair,  which 
was  darker  than  that  of  Wilkins,  was  so  fine  as  to  appear 
thin. 

There  was  more  life,  more  vigor,  more  animal  spirit 
and  manliness,  in  this  face,  than  in  the  one  I  have  first 
described ;  but  it  was  not  so  high-bred  and  gentle,  nor, 
to  my  taste,  so  refinedly  handsome.  Still,  Fitz-James 
O'Brien  would  have  passed  anywhere  for  a  fine-looking 
man,  as  he  certainly  was. 

In  one  personal  peculiarity  he  had  a  great  advantage, 
not  only  over  Ned  Wilkins,  but  over  almost  all  other  men 
I  ever  knew.  His  voice,  in  speaking,  was  the  richest,  the 
sweetest,  the  most  persuasive  and  expressive,  of  all  the  male 
voices  I  can  now  recall.  It  was  a  power  in  itself.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  impression  he  made  upon  a  little  party, 


xlviii  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

one  evening,  by  the  manner  in  which  he  read  several  of 
Emerson's  poems.  He  threw  so  much  warmth,  so  much 
human  tenderness  and  sympathy  into  them,  that  we  were 
all  astonished.  Then,  artfully  turning  the  leaves,  as  if  still 
reading  from  the  book,  he  recited  his  own  "  Bacchus  " :  — 

"  Pink  as  the  rose  was  his  skin  so  fair, 

Round  as  the  rosebud  his  perfect  shape, 
And  there  lay  a  light  in  his  tawny  hair, 

Like  the  sun  in  the  heart  of  a  bursting  grape! " 

"» 

You  can  fancy  how  we  marvelled  to  hear  such  luscious 
tropes  from  Emerson,  and  how  we  laughed  over  the  de- 
ception when  O'Brien  informed  us  of  it. 

Wilkins  was  an  indefatigable  worker.  The  sun  never 
set  without  having  shone  upon  something  accomplished 
by  him.  The  dramatic  and  musical  articles,  and  a  va- 
riety of  short,  sprightly,  sometimes  sharp,  and  often  hu- 
morous editorials  in  the  Herald,  were  from  his  pen. 

Besides  these,  he  wrote  a  dashing,  humorous,  highly 
original  —  and  to  the  managers  often  exasperating  — 
dramatic  feuilleton  for  a  weekly  paper,  and  was  the  New 
York  correspondent  for  several  American  and  foreign 
journals. 

It  will  be  readily  imagined  that  so  much  occupation  left 
him  but  little  leisure.  Yet  nobody  ever  saw  him  in  a 
hurry,  or  with  the  air  of  being  pressed  by  business.  He 
always  had  plenty  of  time  to  chat,  to  take  a  glass  of  some- 
thing social,  to  join  in  any  merry-making,  to  romp  with 
his  sister's  children,  —  to  whom  he  was  greatly  attached, 
—  and  to  amuse  himself  in  a  hundred  ways;  but  the 
work  was  invariably  done,  and  done  well,  without  slight 
or  slovenliness. 

It  was,  indeed,  one  of  his  harmless  and  pleasant  affec- 


PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS.  xlix 

tations  —  and  he  had  many — to  let  nobody  know  when 
he  worked ;  to  appear  not  to  work  at  all,  but  to  accom- 
plish much,  notwithstanding.  Perhaps  a  habit  of  his, 
which  was  not  very  widely  known,  might  explain  some- 
thing of  his  apparent  leisure.  He  rose  at  six  in  the 
morning,  and  wrote  till  breakfast-time,  —  between  nine 
and  ten.  With  the  product  of  this  healthy,  fresh,  early- 
morning  labor  in  his  pocket,  he  could  breakfast  with  ele- 
gant idleness,  and  saunter  down  town  as  if  time-killing 
were  his  only  object  in  life.  In  the  'Herald  office  he 
usually  wrote  something  more,  and  returned  home  to 
dine  at  dusk,  with  nothing  to  think  of  until  the  theatres 
opened,  when  he  went  about  from  one  to  the  other,  wher- 
ever there  was  anything  new  going  on,  making  mental 
notes  for  the  amusement  paragraphs  which  he  usually 
wrote  immediately  on  going  home,  and  sent  to  the  paper 
by  a  messenger. 

O'Brien's  methods  of  working  were  in  no  wise  so  sys- 
tematic as  this.  Poets  are  erratic  by  nature,  and  none 
more  so  than  he  was.  He  often  let  days  and  weeks  pass 
without  putting  a  line  on  paper.  Then,  when  the  inspira- 
tion came,  he  wrote  steadily  and  easily  on  to  the  end, 
often  without  interruption.  He  was  not  known,  how- 
ever, to  rise  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  was  inordinately  fond  of  his  bed,  sleeping  ten, 
twelve,  and  fifteen  hours  on  a  stretch.  One  or  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  was  a  common  hour  for  his  appearance 
for  breakfast,  and  nearly  all  his  work  was  done  between 
that  time  and  dark. 

Undoubtedly  his  habits  of  labor  would  have  been  much 
more  regular  if  he  had  lived  an  orderly  and  methodical 
life,  with  surroundings  accumulated  by  the  instinct  of 
comfort,  —  an  instinct  as  much  inborn  as  an  ear  for  music 

d 


1  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

or  an  eye  for  color.  But  poor  Fitz  lacked  this.  He  loved 
luxuries  but  could  not  acquire  them.  Left  to  himself, 
he  became  instantly  reduced  to  a  half-furnished  bedroom 
in  some  dingy  hotel,  a  solitary  suit  of  clothing,  and  — 
nothing  else.  He  was  frequently  without  a  pen,  a  bot- 
tle of  ink,  a  sheet  of  paper,  or  money  enough  to  purchase 
either,  —  a  condition  of  things  not  highly  favorable  to  the 
entertainment  of  the  Muses. 

When  I  first  knew  him,  in  '50,  '57,  he  had  elegant  rooms, 
with  a  large  and  valuable  library,  piles  of  manuscripts, 
dressing-cases,  decanters,  pipes,  pictures,  a  wardrobe  of 
much  splendor,  and  all  sorts  of  knickknackery  such  as 
young  bachelors  love  to  collect.  These  properties  were 
subsequently  left,  a  melancholy  trail,  among  the  lodging- 
houses  in  which  he  lived,  —  or  rather  through  which  he 
passed,  —  for  the  partial  indemnification  of  the  disap- 
pointed keepers  thereof. 

I  do  not  think  that  Fitz  ever  incurred  a  debt  in  his 
life  without  feeling  perfectly  sure  of  its  immediate  pay- 
ment. But,  somehow,  when  he  had  the  money,  he  had 
also  so  many  other  uses  for  it  that  the  debt  was  crowded 
over  "  till  next  time."  Meanwhile  he  came  to  be  afflicted 
with  a  certain  curious  fear  of  his  creditor,  that  increased 
with  every  day  of  credit,  until  meeting  him  voluntarily 
was  far  beyond  Fitz's  strength  of  mind ;  so  the  debt  went 
forever  uncancelled.  This  was  hardly  criminal,  save  in 
the  strictest  dry-goods  point  of  view ;  but  it  was  exceed- 
ingly unfortunate  for  O'Brien — and  for  others. 

All  these  petty  considerations,  however,  sink  into  noth- 
ingness when  we  read  a  poem  like  the  ode  to  Kane,  or  a 
romance  like  "  The  Diamond  Lens."  Let  it  be  recorded, 
in  passing,  that  all  the  stories  about  O'Brien's  stealing-  the 
plot  of  this  wonderful  tale  from  one  of  the  late  William 


PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS.  li 

North's  manuscripts  are  utterly  and  ridiculously  false. 
North  had  not  brain  enough,  and  has  nowhere  indicated 
the  possession  of  half  enough,  to  have  conceived  such  a 
work.  It  is  like  saying  that  Tennyson  borrows  inspira- 
tion from  Tupper.* 

Ned  Wilkins  left  no  work  which  will  live  beyond  the 
memory  of  his  personal  friends.  His  feuilletons,  before 
mentioned,  were  very  clever,  and  upon  these  rests  the  best 
part  of  his  strictly  literary  reputatjpn.  The  Herald  files 
bear  abundant  testimony  to  his  powers  as  a  journalist. 

His  death  seemed,  when  it  came,  like  some  great  mis- 
take. Everybody  exclaimed,  "  No,  not  Wilkins  !  "  when 
they  heard  of  it.  It  did  not  seem  possible.  I  passed  a 
delightful  evening  with  him,  two  weeks  before.  We  went 
to  Niblo's,  to  laugh  at  Forrest's  Metamora,  —  and  found 
plenty  to  laugh  at,  —  after  which  I  accompanied  him  to 
his  rooms,  where  we  talked  about  literature  —  French 
especially,  and  Montaigne,  one  of  his  prime  favorites  — 
until  the  small  hours  began  to  grow.  A  few  days  later, 
I  heard  he  was  ill,  but  of  nothing  serious.  A  week  after, 
I  was  in  the  house,  and  went  up  to  his  chamber  with  a 
wild  and  untamable  friend  of  his,  to  give  him  a  rouse. 

*  O'Brien's  story  of  "  The  Diamond  Lens  "  was,  in  fact,  prompted 
by  a  suggestion  made  to  him  by  Belle w,  the  artist,  or  by  Dr.  A.  L. 
Carroll,  respecting  the  wonders  concealed  in  a  drop  of  water.  There 
is  a  superb  passage  on  this  subject  somewhere  in  the  works  of  Edward 
Everett.  "  The  Diamond  Lens  "  first  appeared  in  January,  1858, 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  William  North  was  not  then  living,  — 
he  having  committed  suicide,  at  No.  7  Bond  Street,  New  York,  on 
November  13th,  1854.  North  was  the  author  of  a  story  entitled 
"  Microcosmos,"  which  may  have  related  to  a  topic  kindred  with 
that  of  "  The  Diamond  Lens,"  and  which  was  lost  by  a  publisher 
in  Philadelphia.  The  known  writings  of  North,  as  Arnold  sug- 
gests, indicate  neither  the  force  nor  the  quality  of  imagination 


lii  KECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

He  was  in  bed,  and  sleepy;  but  laughed  as  he  said, 
"There,  good  night,  —  shut  the  door  behind  you,"  —  in 
token  of  his  willingness  to  be  left  alone. 

Two  days  later  I  saw  him  in  the  street  with  William 
Stuart,  the  manager,  and  was  pained  to  see  how  like  an 
old  man  he  walked.  This  was  Tuesday  or  Wednesday. 
On  the  Sunday  following  Will  Winter  came  to  my  rooms, 
pale,  haggard,  hollow-eyed,  and  told  me  with  a  gasp  that 
Ned  Wilkins  was  dead  ! 

He  was  just  on  the  threshold.  His  position  was  just 
assured  and  ripening.  He  was  just  coming  into  a  hand- 
some income  from  his  manifold  labors.  He  had  just 
established  a  happy  home,  with  the  family  of  a  deceased 
brother.  Everything  smiled  upon  him,  and  fortune  was 
turning  her  wheel  in  his  behalf,  when  —  poof !  —  the 
candle  is  out! 

Not  so  with  Fitz- James  O'Brien.  He  was,  I  think,  of 
exactly  the  same  age,  but  he  had  lived  more.  He  had 
gained  experience  in  London,  where  he  dissipated  his 
patrimony  and  underwent  a  grand  passion.  He  was  a 
sort  of  poet  before  Ned  dreamed  of  writing  anything. 

O'Brien  has  left  enough  poems  to  make  a  volume  or 
two  of  rare  excellence. 

needful  to  produce  such  a  work  as  "  The  Diamond  Lens  "  ;  whereas 
O'Brien's  writings  abound  with  the  same  powers  and  attributes  that 
are  shown  in  this  particular  tale.  North  and  O'Brien  were  once 
friends,  but  they  parted  in  enmity ;  and  this  foolish  imputation  of 
plagiarism,  to  which  Arnold  refers,  was  subsequently  cast  upon 
O'Brien  by  some  obscure  adherent  of  North's.  It  never  had  the 
least  foundation  in  truth.  Bat  O'Brien  was  too  brilliant  a  mind, 
and  wrote  too  well,  to  escape  the  hostility  of  envy  and  the  pursuit 
of  detraction. — North's  principal  work,  "The  Man  of  the  World," 
in  which  O'Brien  is  satirized  as  0' Bouncer,  was  originally  named 
"The  Slave  of  the  Lamp."— ED. 


PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS.  liii 

His  death  was  tragic.  He  was  on  the  staff  of  General 
Lander,  and  he  went  out  with  forty  men  to  forage  one  day, 
near  Bloomery  Gap.  Meeting  a  force  of  Confederates, 
Fitz  ordered  a  charge,  as  a  matter  of  course;  he  never 
knew  what  physical  fear  was.  Unhappily  the  enemy 
outnumbered  him  largely,  and  his  charge  was  of  no  use. 
A  skirmish  ensued,  and  in  it  Fitz  met  the  Confederate 
officer  in  command,  face  to  face,  in  the  road.  A  regular 
duel  with  revolvers  ensued.  At  the  second  shot  O'Brien's 
shoulder  was  fractured,  the  ball  entering  near  the  elbow 
and  glancing  up  the  humerus  bone.  This,  however,  did 
not  spoil  his  eye,  and  with  another  shot  he  knocked  his 
opponent  out  of  the  saddle. 

The  best  of  treatment,  in  a  private  family,  at  Cumber- 
land, only  alleviated  his  lingering  tortures,  and  he  died, 
within  seven  weeks,  in  terrible  agony,  lockjaw  having 
threatened  him  almost  from  the  first.  During  his  illness 
he  managed  to  write  two  or  three  fine  poems  and  some 
charming  letters. 

I  think  a  larger  number  of  persons  mourned  for  O'Brien 
than  for  Wilkins ;  for  all  his  many  readers  missed  him, 
and  sorrowed  thereat.  But  there  was  a  deeper  grief  in 
St.  Thomas's  Church,  on  that  mournful  rainy  afternoon, 
among  those  who  gathered  about  the  beautiful  presence 
of  what  was  once  Ned  Wilkins,  than  often  falls  to  the 
lot  of  any  of  us,  be  we  journalists,  poets,  or  simple 
"  lookers-on  in  Vienna."  * 

GEORGE  ARNOLD. 

*  St.  Thomas's  Church  stood  at  the  northwest  corner  of  Broad- 
way and  Houston  Street,  New  York.  It  was  torn  down  long  ago. 
—ED. 


liv  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 


O'BKIEN'S  BOHEMIAN  DAYS. 


MY  DEAR  WINTER  : — Your  letter  revives  many  pleasant 
recollections.  As  I  read  it,  FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN  stands 
before  me,  and  I  see  his  stout,  athletic  figure,  his  broad, 
ruddy  Irish  face,  his  characteristic  suit  of  that  check- 
pattern  supposed  to  be  monopolized  by  British  tourists 
in  French  farces.  He  used  to  call  it  his  "  banking  "  suit ; 
and,  indeed/ in  those  merry  Bohemian  days,  the  checks 
he  wore  were  the  only  ones  we  knew. 

O'Brien  had  not  only  the  figure  but  the  training  of  an 
athlete,  and  I  remember  that,  before  the  war  turned  the 
attention  of  our  young  men  to  athletics,  his  skill  was 
considered  wonderful.  He  was  an  admirable  swordsman, 
and  had  served  in  the  English  army,  although  he  was 
always  reticent  as  to  his  history.  I  have  seen  several 
instances  of  his  skill  with  the  pistol.  Once  we  were 
to  dine  with  a  friend  in  chambers,  and  sat  in  a  front 
room  waiting  for  dinner.  Over  the  table,  in  the.  back 
room,  was  suspended  from  the  chandelier  one  of  those 
little  card-board  ornaments,  three-sided,  with  a  tiny  ball 
of  worsted  hanging  from  each  of  the  corners.  The  con- 
versation turned  upon  William  Tell,  and,  to  illustrate 
the  feasibility  of  Tell's  feat  with  the  apple,  Fitz- James, 
without  rising  from  his  chair,  drew  a  revolver  from  his 
pocket  and  shot  off  the  three  tiny  balls  swinging  from  the 


HIS  BOHEMIAN  DAYS.  lv 

chandelier  ornament,  —  one,  two,  three,  as  quickly  as  I 
could  give  the  word. 

Just  then  a  waiter  entered  with  a  plate  of  birds  for 
dinner.  "  Ha  !  "  cried  O'Brien,  "  now  we  can  have  some 
real  shooting.  Let  fly  a  bird,  waiter ! "  —  "  But,  sir,"  stam- 
mered the  waiter,  "the  birds  are  fried!"  —  "Fried!" 
shouted  O'Brien,  with  a  voice  that  rang  through  the 
house,  "then  let  me  shoot  the  cook!  A  cook  who 
would  fry  birds  deserves  death !  The  cook !  Tell  him 
to  come  up  and  be  killed  instantly ! " 

The  idea  of  suicide  was  often  in  O'Brien's  mind.  I 
recall  a  night  at  Pfaff 's  when  the  matter  was  seriously 
discussed.  Just  at  that  period  death  was  very  dear  to 
all  of  us.  You  had  written  your  dark  poem  of  "  Orgia." 
George  Arnold  was  meditating  gloomy  verses.  Poor 
Shepherd,  hanging  crape  upon  his  usual  genial  mood, 
was  confiding  to  Pfaff  his  fondness  for  the  tomb.  Harry 
Clapp,*  always  cynical,  declared  that  his  feeling  in  regard 

*  N.  G.  Shepherd  and  Henry  Clapp,  Jr.  were  casual  and  not 
intimate  associates  of  O'Brien.  The  former  was  a  most  amiable 
man,  and  a  charming  writer,  whether  in  verse  or  prose.  The  latter 
was  one  of  the  most  sparkling  cynical  wits  that  have  ever  worked 
on  the  American  press.  Clapp  was  born,  Nov.  llth,  1814,  at  Nan- 
tucket,  Mass.,  and  in  early  life  he  distinguished  himself  both  as  a 
writer  and  an  orator  for  the  temperance  cause  and  for  the  abolition  of 
slavery.  On  October  23d,  1858,  he  started  the  New  York  Saturday 
Press,  with  T.  B.  Aldrich  as  assistant  editor,  and  O'Brien  as  dramatic 
reviewer.  Aldrich  and  O'Brien  retired  from  the  paper  in  January, 
1859,  and  in  December,  1860,  it  was  discontinned.  Several  years 
later  Clapp  revived  it,  —  stating  that  it  had  been  suspended  for 
want  of  means,  and  was  now  started  again  for  the  same  reason.  The 
favorite  signature  of  this  caustic  satirist  was  "Figaro."  He  led  a 
restless,  unhappy,  and,  toward  the  last,  a  very  wretched  and  pitia- 
ble life,  and  he  died  in  extreme  penury  —  aged  sixty-one  —  on  the 
2d  of  April,  1875.  His  name,  at  the  time,  was  bandied  about  in 


Ivi  KECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

to  death  was  one  of  "consuming,  intolerable  curiosity." 
"  That,"  said  O'Brien,  "  is  my  feeling  exactly,  and  I  intend 
to  satisfy  my  curiosity  without  waiting  for  the  slow  decay 
of  nature.  Doubtless  the  '  consuming '  may  come  after- 
wards ;  but  of  that  we  must  take  the  chances.  With 
such  a  fascinating  problem  as  that  of  death  before  us, 
I  cannot  imagine  how  anybody  can  be  satisfied  to  go  on 
with  the  monotonous  stupidity  of  living." 

O'Brien's  talk  was  often  crisply  epigrammatic.  He 
was  not  a  punster :  the  wit  of  his  remarks  was  in  the 
idea  and  the  nice  arrangement  of  words ;  the  humor  was 
subtle  and  as  bright  as  sunshine ;  not  the  broad  Irish 
wit  and  humor  of  smart  sayings  and  sudden  repartee,  but 
quaint,  peculiar,  pervading  the  thought  as  well  as  the 
expression  of  the  thought.  After  he  had  been  shot,  in 
the  war,  and  when  he  was  on  his  death-bed,  he  wrote  a 
letter,  which  I  have  unfortunately  lost,  relative  to  the 
spring  fashion  openings,  of  which  the  papers  were  then 

a  thoroughly  inhuman  and  disgraceful  manner  by  many  journal- 
ists in  this  country,  who,  while  he  lived,  were  never  his  equals 
either  in  ability  or  any  virtue.  His  grave  is  beside  that  of  his 
mother,  at  Nantucket.  His  epitaph  was  written,  as  follows,  by  the 
editor  of  this  volume  :  — 

H.  C. 

"Wit  stops  to  grieve  and  laughter  stops  to  sigh 

That  so  much  wit  and  laughter  e'er  could  die  ; 

But  pity,  conscious  of  its  anguish  past, 

Is  glad  this  tortured  spirit  rests  at  last. 

His  purpose,  thought,  and  goodness  ran  to  waste  ; 

He  made  a  happiness  he  could  not  taste  ; 

Mirth  could  not  help  him,  talent  could  not  save  ; 

Through  cloud  and  storm  he  drifted  to  the  grave. 

Ah,  give  his  memory  —  who  made  the  cheer, 

And  gave  so  many  smiles  —  a  single  tear!  —  ED. 


HIS  BOHEMIAN  DAYS.  Ivii 

full,  and  he  described  the  trees,  flowers,  and  hospital 
life  in  the  terms  employed  by  the  fashion-writers,  —  using 
them  so  aptly  and  so  daintily  that  they  seemed  abso- 
lutely poetical,  and  the  reader  wondered  why  nature 
should  not  have  been  always  depicted  in  the  patois  of  the 
modiste  and  the  colors  of  the  fashion-plate.  Yet  this  let- 
ter, as  carefully  written  as  if  it  were  intended  for  pub- 
lication, was  thrown  off  in  a  painful  hour,  to  amuse  and 
reassure  an  anxious  friend.  But  O'Brien  could  write 
nothing  carelessly.  His  diamonds  were  all  polished  and 
faceted.  He  never  seemed  to  find  them  in  the  rough, 
although  he  drew  them  from  an  apparently  inexhaustible 
mine. 

He  spoke  guardedly  to  me  of  an  attachment  in  the  old 
country,  that  had  marred  his  life.  "  Passion  I  can  feel," 
he  said ;  "  but  never  again  shall  I  know  what  it  is  to 
love.  A  man  who  once  really  loves  can  love  but  once. 
I  have  loved  one  woman ;  for  all  other  women  my  heart 
is  dead ;  but  my  passions,  which  have  no  heart  in  them, 
are  as  strong  as  lions,  and  they  tear  me  like  lions."  It 
was  the  old  story,  —  trite  enough  to  be  almost  ludicrous. 

O'Brien,  like  most  of  his  comrades  of  that  brilliant 
coterie  we  knew  and  loved,  died  too  soon  for  his  fame. 
His  writings  were  exquisite,  but  they  are  forgotten  except 
by  the  select  few  who  collect  and  prize  such  literary  gems. 
The  war  interposes  between  his  fame  and  the  present 
generation,  like  a  new  deluge.  The  clear,  sweet,  strong 
voice  of  his  poetry  was  drowned  by  the  clash  of  resound- 
ing arms.  Even  as  a  soldier  of  the  Union  he  fell  too 
soon;  for  his  memory  is  obscured  by  the  holocausts  of 
later  but  not  more  noble  sacrifices.  To  recall  him  and 
his  works  is  like  discovering  a  genius  who  lived  before  the 
flood,  and  was  overwhelmed  by  the  waves  upon  which 


Iviii  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

the  dumb  beasts  that  voyaged  with  Noah  rode  safely 
to  Mount  Ararat  and  celebrity.  How  many  other  great 
and  glowing  souls  were  quenched,  like  O'Brien's,  by  the 
war  that  drowned  out  the  old  era  and  gave  us  a  new 
America !  To  you,  —  preserved  like  the  dove  in  the  ark 
of  life,  —  I  rejoice  that  the  task  has  come  of  revivifying 
one  of  the  genial  and  gracious  names  that  were  lost  be- 
neath the  waters  of  the  Lethe  of  1861. 
Yours  faithfully, 

STEPHEN   FISKE. 
NEW  YORK,  October  8th,  1880. 


AS  JOUKNALIST  AND  SOLDIER.  lix 


O'BKIEN  AS  JOUENALIST  AND   SOLDIER 


MY  DEAR  WINTER  :  —  It  is  questionable  whether  I  can 
contribute  anything  in  relation  to  FITZ-JAMES  O'BRIEN 
beyond  that  which  is  already  known  to  you.  After  the 
lapse  of  eighteen  years,  my  reminiscences  of  him  are, 
I  fear,  too  general  to  be  of  interest. 

Coming  to  Vanity  Fair,  some  five  months  after  the 
date  of  its  first  publication,  my  early  impressions  of  him, 
derived  mainly  from  others,  were  —  to  speak  frankly  — 
not  of  a  kind  to  attract  me  toward  him ;  yet,  as  I  look 
back  upon  my  acquaintance  with  him,  the  retrospect 
recalls  no  act  of  his  during  the  continuance  of  our 
friendly  relations  —  which  ended  only  with  his  death 
—  that  should  lead  me  to  speak  unkindly  of  him  now. 
Without  reference  to  the  loss  that  literature  sustained  in 
his  death,  I  felt  a  keen  sorrow  at  his  sudden  "  taking-off," 
for  there  was  a  strain  of  manliness  underlying  his  erratic 
habits  of  life  that  always  had  a  charm  for  me,  and  a 
claim  upon  my  warmest  sympathies.  There  is,  perhaps, 
something  that  may  well  be  left  unsaid ;  but,  as  that  is 
true,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  of  all  of  us,  the  reflection 
may  go  for  what  it  is  worth,  with  those  who  care  to 
dwell  upon  it,  and  whose  freedom  from  human  frailty 
gives  them  a  charter  to  censure  other  men. 

The  personality  of  O'Brien  presents  itself  clearly  before 
me  now,  and  I  can  almost  see  him  as  he  was  then,  when 


Ix  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 

his  strong,  yrell-knit  frame  and  exuberant  and  rejoicing 
vigor  bade  fair  to  outlast  the  lives  of  all  his  associates. 

It  was  a  custom,  in  the  early  days  of  Vanity  Fair,  in 
the  old  editorial  rooms  at  No.  113  Nassau  Street,  New 
York,  for  the  writers  and  artists  who  were  then  associated 
with  it  to  assemble  every  Friday  afternoon,  and,  over  a 
glass  of  wine  and  a  cigar,  submit  and  discuss  suggestions 
for  subjects  for  the  next  issue.  On  these  occasions 
O'Brien's  arrival  was  always  the  signal  for  an  outburst  of 
welcome,  and  our  interest  immediately  centred  in  the  new- 
comer. His  personal  magnetism  and  bright  intelligence 
brought  him  at  once  to  the  front;  for,  in  the  friendly 
encounter  of  wit  and  humor,  O'Brien  —  always  self-reli- 
ant, brilliant,  well-tempered,  apt  at  repartee,  and  piquant 
with  a  jovial  aggressiveness  —  imparted  new  vitality  to 
the  little  circle,  and  made  lively  work  for  all  about  him. 
Amid  the  laughter,  buzz  and  hum  of  voices,  and  the  quick 
interchange  of  quip  and  jest,  —  to  which  he  invariably 
contributed  his  full  share, — he  would  take  his  place  at 
the  table,  and  turn  off  paragraphs,  writing  off-hand  and 
rapidly,  (how  well  it  is  needless  for  me  to  say,)  upon 
almost  any  subject  that  presented  itself. 

Excellent  traits  in  his  character  were  his  freedom  from 
envy  and  his  prompt  recognition  of  ability  in  others, 
which  no  personal  differences  could  induce  him  to  dis- 
pute ;  and  when  his  judgment  was  asked  among  his  lit- 
erary friends,  which  was  not  infrequently  the  case,  his 
advice  was  kindly  and  conscientiously  given.  Careless, 
as  he  certainly  was,  of  the  opinions  of  others  regarding 
his  actions,  he  was  keenly  sensitive  to  the  spirit  of  un- 
fairness which  prompted  attacks  upon  him  in  certain 
journals,  as  to  matters  so  entirely  personal  as  to  possess 
no  interest  for  the  public.  Never  shrinking  from  any 


AS  JOURNALIST  AND  SOLDIER.  Ixi 

responsibility  for  his  acts,  and  despising  an  ambushed 
attack,  he  was  a  fearless,  open  enemy,  physically  and  in- 
tellectually equipped  for  defence,  and  always  in  his  "  boots 
and  spurs."  His  sympathies  were  naturally  with  the 
weaker  side,  and  frequent  and  bitter  were  the  satirical 
shafts  he  let  fly  at  the  heads  of  men  occupying  posi- 
tions which,  in  his  opinion,  belonged  of  right  to  women. 
Looking  to  more  ambitious  work,  he  had  selected  the 
story  of  Samson  as  a  subject  for  a  drama,  and,  I  think, 
had  partly  written  it. 

At  the  breaking  out  of  the  war,  O'Brien,  an  uncom- 
promising Union  man,  never  failed  to  support  with  his 
pen  the  cause  which  he  afterward  aided  with  his  sword. 
A  love  of  adventure  would  have  impelled  such  a  man  to 
the  army ;  but  every  man  who  knew  him  knew  that  in 
joining  the  Union  forces  in  the  field  he  was  prompted  by 
love  for  his  adopted  country.  After  his  experience  at 
Camp  Cameron  with  the  New  York  Seventh  Regiment, 
in  which  he  served  as  a  private  soldier,  he  felt  that  the 
opportunity  had  come  for  him  to  redeem  the  time  he  had 
so  carelessly  used.  He  went  to  the  front,  determined  to 
make  a  good  record  in  his  new  profession.  Cool,  clear- 
headed, and  full  of  fight,  he  had  the  elements  for  brilliant 
soldiership. 

At  this  time  he  was  much  in  my  society,  and  I  remem- 
ber with  what  a  sad  earnestness  he  occasionally  referred 
to  the  past,  and  how  well  and  hopefully  he  dwelt  upon 
the  possibilities  of  the  future.  I  have  an  abiding  faith 
that  he  spoke  then  from  the  deepest  promptings  of  his 
heart.  He  died  young,  —  when  his  vigorous  constitution 
gave  hope  of  years  of  life  before  him,  in  which  his  better 
nature  and  unquestionable  genius  could  have  given  to 
the  world  the  best  that  was  in  him. 


kii  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  O'BRIEN. 


A  few  days  before  his  death  he  wrote  a  singularly  in- 
teresting letter  to  his  friend  Frank  Wood,  under  circum- 
stances in  which  a  man  has  but  little  courage  for  corre- 
spondence. Written  when  he  was  dying,  after  a  severe 
surgical  operation  performed  when  he  was  exhausted  by 
long  suffering  from  his  wound,  this  letter  impresses  the 
reader  with  the  marvellous  self-control  of  a  man  —  "a 
philosopher  serene  and  cold,"  to  quote  his  own  words  — 
who  could  look  death  in  the  face,  and  composedly  con- 
template and  analyze  his  own  feelings  and  condition. 

Surely  his  memory  and  his  works  have  a  claim  upon 
the  American  people.  He  gave  to  our  country  all  he 
could,  —  his  life  :  let  him  who  can  give  more  !  While 
it  may  be  regretted  that  the  early  promise  of  a  man  so 
capable  was  not  entirely  realized,  the  works  that  he  has 
left  are  an  earnest  of  the  beautiful  spirit  that  stirred 
within  him :  — 

"  And,  for  his  passage, 

The  soldier's  music  and  the  rites  of  war 

Speak  loudly  for  him." 

LOUIS  H.  STEPHENS. 
PHILADELPHIA,  August  3d,  1880. 


POEMS. 


"Making  the  hard  way  sweet  and  delectable." 

SHAKESPEAEE. 


POEMS. 


SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

THE  hunt  was  o'er.     The  last  thin  bugle-note 

Had  stole  away  among  the  friendly  trees, 

Declining  gently  on  its  weary  way, 

And  dying  in  their  arms.     The  exhausted  hounds 

Besmeared  with  wild-boar's  blood  lay  down,  and  licked 

Their  sanguine  coats ;  or,  growling,  strove  to  scare 

With  lazy  paw  the  floating  globes  of  flies 

That  buzzed  around  them  lured  with  scent  of  gore. 

The  horses,  bridle-tethered  to  the  trees, 

With  flanks  thin  drawn,  where  lay  the  hardened  sweat 

In  glistening  furrows,  champed  the  cruel  bit, 

Or  nibbled  at  the  leaves.     Beneath  the  shade 

Of  a  great  chestnut  that  obscured  the  sun 

The  hunters,  gathered  in  a  little  group, 

Talked  of  the  chase ;  and  pleasant  stories  ran 

Of  perils,  magnified  with  sportsman's  boasts, 

And  huge  leaps  taken  in  the  heat  of  chase. 

Then  hearty  laughs  at  some  green  youth's  mishap 

Went  round  the  circle  like  a  jocund  ring 

Of  sparkling  merriment.     The  men  were  gay 

In  joyance  of  rude  strength.     Their  eyes  were  bold ; 

Their  white  teeth  glistened  through  their  nut-brown  beards 

Like  foam-beads  in  dark  ale.     Their  skins  were  tanned 


4  SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

By  honest  wind  and  sun,  and  every  limb 

Was  large  and  fit  for  use.     These  men  were  rough 

As  prickly-pear  or  pomegranate,  but  they 

Were  ripe,  and  honest-fruited  at  the  core. 

Then  in  each  pause  a  silver  bowl  went  round, 

Filled  with  red  wine,  and  every  hunter  drank, 

1  Health  to  St.  Hubert,  our  good  patron  saint ! ' 

And  passed  the  wine  bowl  on,  until  it  came 

To  where  Sir  Brasil  sat.     And  he  outspoke, 

*  You  know,  my  friends,  I  live  not  to  drink  wine, 

Since  that  sad  day  when  in  the  Holy  Land 

The  Emir  made  me  quaff  my  brother's  blood 

Disguised  as  wine.     I  cannot  join  your  revel. 

Pardon  me,  comrades,  I  will  seek  some  stream, 

Hid  in  the  twilight  of  this  leafy  glade, 

And  drink  your  healths  in  a  more  homely  draught.' 

Then  rose  he  'mid  good-natured  jeers  and  smiles 

At  such  faint-heartedness  in  belted  knight, 

And,  yielding  in  return  mock  courtesies, 

He  leashed  his  favorite  falcon  to  his  wrist, 

And,  girding  on  his  sword,  straight  took  his  way, 

Along  the  silent  glades. 

There  was  no  water 

In  all  the  summer  woods.     The  insatiate  sun 
Had  drunk  all  up,  and  robbed  each  secret  spring, 
Save  the  round  beads  of  dew  that  nestling  dwelt 
Beep  in  the  bottom  of  the  foxglove's  bells. 
There  was  no  water:     Beds  of  vanished  streams 
Mocked  him  with  memories  of  lucid  waves, 
That  rose  and  fell  before  his  fancy's  eye 
In  glassy  splendor.     As  the  soothing  wind 
Stole  softly  o'er  the  leaves,  it  gave  low  tones, 
That  sounded  in  Sir  Brasil's  sharpened  ear 


SIK  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

Like  distant  ripplings  of  a  pleasant  stream ; 

But  there  was  none.     The  umbered  soil  was  dry, 

And  the  hare  rustled  through  parched,  crisping  grass. 

Sir  Brasil  sighed  :  his  brow  was  hot,  —  his  tongue 

Beat  dry  against  his  teeth.     His  upmost  thought 

"Was  water,  —  water,  clear,  and  bright,  and  cool ! 

A  storm-cock  flew  across  the  glade  ;  his  beak 

Was  red  with  berries  of  the  mountain  ash, 

That  had  lain  hidden  from  the  by-gone  frost 

Deep  in  some  cranny  of  the  gaping  earth. 

Then  quoth  Sir  Brasil,  '  I  will  follow  him, 

For  I  have  heard  that  birds  do  fly  to  springs, 

As  sands  of  steel  to  magnets.'     So  he  struck 

A  bee's  line  through  the  woods,  and  followed  him. 

Thick  grew  the  brambles,  for  there  was  no  path 

For  dainty  feet ;  but  gnarled  roots  of  oak 

Pushed  earth  aside  and  twined  in  curving  cords 

Like  snakes  at  play.     Pale  wild-flowers  grew  in  crowds, 

Like  captive  fays,  o'er  whom  the  giant  trees 

Kept  watch  and  ward.     Through  the  green  canopy 

That  stretched  overhead,  stray,  vagrant  sunbeams  stole, 

Turning  with  fairy  power  the  withered  leaves 

To  evanescent  gold.     Lizards,  with  skins 

Like  lapis-lazuli,  peeped. with  glittering  eyes 

Between  the  crevices  of  mouldering  trees. 

The  hum  of  bees  'round  many  a  trunk  foretold 

The  heavy  honeycomb  that  lay  within, 

Concealed  with  cunning  passages  and  doors 

Of  deftly-woven  moss.     The  bright  jay  chattered, 

And  the  bold  robin  gazed  with  mute  surprise 

On  the  strange  shape  whose  daring  seemed  to  make 

The  woods  his  own,  while  on  Sir  Brasil  went, 

Stumbling  o'er  roots,  embraced  by  brambly  arms, 


6  SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

And  leaving  fragments  of  his  rich  attire 

Fluttering  on  thorny  boughs,  that  many  a  day 

Held  in  great  awe  the  timid  woodland  birds. 

The  sun  grew  low.     It  was  three  hours  beyond 

The  middle  day,  when,  lo  !  Sir  Brasil  stepped 

With  hooded  falcon  leashed  upon  his  wrist, 

Cloak  torn  in  shreds,  and  plume  that  hung  awry, 

Beyond  the  limit  of  the  lonely  wood, 

And  found  himself  upon  the  rugged  brink 

Of  a  dried  water-course.     It  was  a  dank 

And  dismal  place.     The  broad,  misshapen  trees 

Were  bare  anatomies,  with  scarce  a  leaf 

To  clothe  their  withered  bones.     Huge,  fleshy  weeds 

Grew  in  black  groups  along  the  ragged  edge 

Of  a  tall,  beetling  cliff,  whose  steep  face  sloped 

With  slabs  of  rock,  adown  whose  pallid  sides 

The  thin,  white  moss  spread  like  a  leprosy. 

Along  the  base  of  this  pale  cliff  there  ran 

The  channel  of  some  fitful  winter  stream 

Long  fled.     The  smooth,  round  pebbles  paved 

The  empty  bed,  and  all  the  secret  rocks 

Lay  bare  and  dry.     Some  there  were  quaintly  holed, 

And  eaten  through  by  the  soft,  toothless  waves, 

And  some  were  strangely  carved,  and  smoothly  hewn, 

With  watery  chisels,  into  phantasm  forms. 

There  was  no  stream.     No  limpid  water  went 

With  trickling  step  along  the  stony  course. 

The  ousel  had  forsook  the  place,  and  sought 

Another  stream  to  dipple  with  its  wings. 

The  heron  stood  no  longer  by  the  brink. 

The  azure  of  the  halcyon  flashed  no  more 

From  bank  to  bank.     The  tall  brown-tufted  reeds, 

That  sung  so  softly  to  the  evening  wind, 


SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

Had  withered  all,  and  lay  in  matted  heaps 

Upon  the  arid  earth.     Sir  Brasil  sighed, 

"  There  is  no  water  here,  I  am  athirst. 

0,  I  would  give  a  broad  piece  for  one  drop 

To  cool  my  parching  throat ! "     As  said  he  this, 

The  sunlight  flashed  upon  some  glittering  point 

That  shone  like  diamond.     Hastening  forward,  he 

Beheld  from  out  the  crevice  of  a  rock 

A  sluggish  flow,  that  trickled  drop  by  drop, 

Of  dark,  green  water.     So  reluctantly 

It  oozed  through  the  fissure,  that  it  seemed 

Like  the  last  lifeblood  of  a  river-god 

Ebbing  in  lingering  drops  from  out  his  heart ! 

"  My  faith  !  "  Sir  Brasil  said,  "  though  not  as  clear 

As  wave  of  Castaly  or  Hippocrene, 

Thou  art  right  welcome,  —  for  my  throat  is  dry, 

And  I  am  faint  with  thirst ;  and  thou,  poor  bird, 

Shalt  share  my  luck,  and  quaff  this  scanty  spring." 

So  saying  to  the  falcon  on  his  wrist, 

He  loosed  its  leashes  and  unlaced  its  hood, 

And  let  its  bold  eye  gaze  abroad  again 

Upon  the  sunny  world.     The  joyous  bird 

Gave  one  far  skyward  glance  j  another  swept 

The  wide  horizon  round,  then  preening  all 

His  plumes,  and  ruffling  them  toward  the  sun, 

He  pecked  the  knight  with  a  love-softened  beak, 

And  nestled  to  his  arm. 

Then  Brasil  straight 

Unloosed  a  silken  belt  from  which  there  swung 
A  golden  bugle.     Taking  it,  he  stopped 
The  jewelled  mouthpiece  with  a  plug  of  moss ; 
Then,  stooping,  held  the  inverted  bell  beneath 
The  slowly  falling  stream.     With  toil  and  pain 


8  SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

He  gathered  each  slow  drop,  and  watched  them  rise 

By  hair's-breadth  after  hair's-breadth,  till  he  saw 

The  dear  draught  level  with  the  golden  rim ; 

Then  joyously  he  raised  it  to  his  lips, 

And  cried,  "  Here 's  to  thee,  goddess  of  the  stream  ! 

Locked  in  the  heart  of  this  cold  rock.     Alone, 

Forsaken  by  the  fickle  waves  that  made 

The  current  of  thy  life,  thou  art  most  desolate, 

And  weep'st  all  day  those  trickling  drops,  which  are 

Thy  tears.     In  them  I  pledge  me  to  thy  grief ! " 

But  as  he  raised  the  golden  bugle  up 

Toward  his  lips,  the  falcon  with  swift  stroke 

Of  his  long  pinion  dashed  it  from  his  hand, 

And  all  the  precious  draught  ran  waste  on  earth. 

Sir  Brasil  frowned.     "  How  now,  bold  bird  1 "  he  cried, 

"  Thou  dost  not  know  how  toilsomely  I  filled 

That  scanty  measure,  or  thou  never  wouldst 

Have  wasted  it.     Next  time  take  better  heed, 

Or  thou  wilt  rue  it."     Once  again  Sir  Brasil 

With  weary  hand  and  long  delay  filled  up 

The  golden  measure,  and  as  he  did  raise 

It  to  his  lips,  the  falcon  with  one  stroke 

Of  his  swift  pinion  dashed  it  to  the  earth. 

Sir  Brasil  swore,  "  Now  by  the  sacred  cup 

Which  Christ  did  drink  of,  I  will  wring  thy  neck, 

Thou  foolish  bird,  an  thou  do  that  again  ! " 

A  third  time  did  he  stoop,  and,  horn  in  hand, 

Bend  his  broad  back  to  catch  the  sluggish  stream  ; 

A  third  time  did  he  raise  the  bugle  up 

Toward  his  lips ;  a  third  time  with  swift  wing 

The  falcon  dashed  the  measure  from  his  hand. 

Then  flashed  Sir  Brasil's  eye  with  humid  fire, 

Quivered  his  thin-drawn  lip,  and  paled  his  cheek, 


SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON.  9 

And  with  an  ungloved  hand  he  smote  the  bird 
Full  in  the  throat.     It  fluttered  on  his  wrist, 
And  drew  its  jesses  taut ;  with  panting  strength 
Spread  out  its  arrowy  wings  convulsively, 
As  if 't  would  flee  right  sunward  from  black  death, 
Then  drew  them  close.     The  silver  Milan  bells,* 
That  quivered  on  its  legs,  rattled  a  chime 
Of  mortal  melody  that  smote  the  sky, 
Its  old  domain.     Its  curved  beak  opened  wide, 
Agape  for  air.     Its  large,  round,  golden  eye 
Turned  one  long  look  of  sad,  reproachful  love 
Full  on  Sir  Brasil  j  then,  with  a  faint  gasp, 
That  stifling  burst  from  its  choked,  swollen  throat, 
It  fluttering  fell.     The  silken  jesses  slipped ; 
Its  proud  head  bent  in  death's  last  agony ; 
And,  tumbling  from  his  wrist,  it  gasped  and  died ! 
The  stern  knight  bit  his  lip  as  he  looked  down ; 
He  loved  the  bird,  but  had  a  hasty  hand, 
And  hastier  temper.     "  Well-a-day  ! "  he  said, 
"  The  bird  was  mulish  and  deserved  its  fate. 
Yet  would  I  had  not  killed  it !  "     Then  he  took 
With  mournful  hand  his  bugle,  and  a  sigh 
Fluttered  between  his  lips,  like  some  sad  bird 
From  prison  flying  blindly.     "  Well !  "  he  said, 
"  'T  is  weary  work  filling  these  sluggish  draughts ; 
Each  takes  an  hour  at  least.     I  '11  to  the  source 
Of  this  thin  stream,  and  ravish  it  with  lips 
As  eager  as  e'er  pressed  the  Sabine  maid, 
When  Roman  youth  grew  hot.     I  '11  dip  my  horn, 

*  Milan  bells.  The  tinkling  bells  that  were  fastened  to  the  fal- 
con's legs  came  from  this  city.  It  was  necessary  that  their  tone 
should  be  sonorous  and  shrill,  and  they  were  graduated  in  a  rising 
scale  of  semitones. 


10  SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

And  raise  it  diamond-dripping  from  the  wave, 

And  as  I  drink,  the  abundant  stream  shall  well 

Over  the  brim,  and  trickle  down  my  beard, 

Like  morning  dew.     I  '11  quaff  with  thirsty  joy, 

And  when  I  've  drank  I  '11  fling  the  lucid  lees 

On  the  dry  leaves,  and  arid  flowers,  that  they 

May  share  the  moist  delight !  "     And  with  these  words 

Ite  sought  the  secret  windings  of  the  stream, 

And  followed  them. 

Starkly  the  falcon  lay ; 

The  dry  leaves  rattled  with  a  stealthy  sound ; 
The  beetle  hummed,  the  insects  in  the  grass 
Made  silver  whisperings ;  the  mouse  crept  out 
From  underneath  the  sod,  and,  timid,  gazed 
On  the  proud  foe  that  lay  so  stiff  and  strange. 
Half  fearing  stratagem,  it  dared  not  move, 
But  pricked  its  ears,  and  oped  its  glittering  eyes 
Enchained  with  wonder,  till  a  lizard  slim 
Darted  from  out  the  grass,  and  boldly  brushed 
The  falcon's  lifeless  wing.     Then  did  the  mouse 
Believe  its  foe  was  dead.     Then  did  it  play 
Around  the  corpse,  and  gaze  into  its  eyes, 
Those  large,  round  golden  eyes,  that  from  the  clouds 
Could  pierce  the  crouching  vermin  of  the  earth 
With  overhanging  death  ! 

The  dry  leaves  fell ; 

The  water  dropped ;  the  insects  in  the  grass 
Hummed  their  sharp  songs  that  sounded  in  the  ear 
Like  tiny  silver  tiuklings.     In  the  midst 
Of  all  this  fair  monotony  of  life 
Lay  the  dead  falcon  ! 

With  much  weary  toil 
Sir  Brasil  traced  the  windings  of  the  stream, 


SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON.  11 

Through  rock  defiles,  as  wild  as  sculptured  dreams 

Where  naked  horrors  frowned.     Through  oozy  swamps 

Coated  with  marish  oil  in  which  the  sun 

Made  slimy  rainbows  ;  through  forsaken  beds 

Of  ancient  streams ;  o'er  massive  boulder  stones, 

Humped  with  old  age,  and  coated  with  gray  moss ; 

O'er  trunks  of  rotting  trees  that  in  the  night 

Lit  with  pale  splendor  the  dark  paths  around, 

And  slept  in  light ;  o'er  sharp  volcanic  soil 

That  crackled  'neath  the  tread ;  o'er  naked  plains, 

Where  the  sad  wind  could  find  not  even  a  stone 

To  whet  its  breath  on,  but  went  babbling  round 

With  dull,  blunt  edge,  —  Sir  Brasil  took  his  way 

With  weary  foot,  and  tongue  that  often  wagged 

In  sanctimonious  oath.     A  full,  slow  hour 

Had  passed,  and  e'en  the  knight,  though  faint  with  thirst, 

Was  nigh  to  turn  upon  his  steps  and  wend 

Back  through  the  woods,  when,  lo !  like  sapphires  seen 

Through  the  smoke-curling  clouds  of  maiden's  hair, 

Gleamed  something  blue.     It  twisted  as  it  shone, 

And  glanced  in  distance  like  an  azure  spray. 

As  speeds  the  Arab  after  five  days'  thirst 

To  the  green  oasis,  —  that  desert's  teat 

At  which  its  children  suck,  —  so  Brasil  sped, 

And  nerved  his  flagging  limbs  to  reach  the  spot 

So  distant  and  so  dear. 

"At  last!"  he  cried, 

"  At  last,  at  last,  the  water  glads  my  sight ! 
O,  I  will  lave,  and  drink,  and  lave  again, 
Until  my  very  bones  the  moisture  feel, 
And  half  my  blood  is  water ! "     And  he  ran 
Like  a  young  deer ;  but  as  he  nearer  came, 
A  poisonous  vapor  seemed  to  load  the  air, 


12  SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

And  foul  mephitic  clouds  that  clogged  each  sense 

Hovered  oppressively  with  leaden  wings. 

Sir  Brasil  staggered  on.     The  poisoned  air 

Smote  on  his  brain  like  an  invisible  sword, 

And  clove  his  consciousness.     He  raved,  and  reeled, 

And  threw  his  arms  aloft,  and  tried  to  pray, 

And  spoke  pet  words  to  his  dead  falcon,  as 

It  were  alive ;  then  suddenly  he  seemed 

With  one  great  effort  to  regain  himself, 

And  onward  strode. 

But  as  he  neared  the  place 
Whence  shot  the  sapphire  gleam,  a  horrid  sight 
Burst  on  his  view.     Lo  !  coiling  on  a  mound 
A  huge,  green  serpent  lay.     Tier  upon  tier 
Of  emerald  scales  that  glistered  into  blue 
Swept  upwards  in  grand  spirals.     His  great  head 
Lay  open-jawed,  and  hanging  o'er  the  brink 
Of  a  steep  rock,  while  slavering  from  his  mouth 
A  stream  of  distilled  poison,  green  and  rank, 
Trickled  in  sluggish  drops,  that  at  the  base 
•  Gathered  themselves  into  an  oily  stream, 
And  flowed  away. 

Sir  Brasil's  heart  grew  sick  ; 
For  now  he  saw  what  he  would  fain  have  drunk, 
And  what  the  falcon  wasted,  was  the  venom 
That  slavered  from  the  serpent  on  the  rock, 
And,  filtering  through  some  secret  stony  way, 
Welled  out  below  in  green  and  sluggish  drops 
Of  withering  poison.     Now  like  a  fierce  wind 
Remorse  howled  through  his  soul,  and  hunted  thought 
Fled  from  its  scorching  breath.     His  nature  swung 
Naked  and  desolate  as  a  gibbet  corpse 
From  which  the  flesh  drops  piecemeal.     He  did  feel 


SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON.  13 

That  death  should  fly  him,  as  a  ghost  of  guilt 

More  horrid  than  himself.     He  felt  that  God 

Held  not  within  his  arsenal  of  curses  * 

One  great  enough  for  him ;  that  earth's  green  skin 

Crept,  as  he  trode,  as  shudders  human  flesh 

When  loathsome  beings  touch  it.     He  grew  white 

As  the  swamp-lily,  and  upon  his  cheek 

Stood  beads  of  dew,  round  and  distinct  as  those 

That  morning  winds  brush  from  the  shivering  trees. 

His  strong  frame  shook ;  short  sobbings  dry  and  fierce 

Rang  in  his  throat,  and  on  his  swelling  chest 

The  silken  doublet  rose  and  fell  amain, 

Like  bellying  sail  that  labors  with  the  wind. 

He  tore  his  long,  fair  curls,  and  cast  them  down 

And  stamped  upon  them,  whilst  he  cursed  himself 

For  his  deep  cruelty  to  so  fair  a  bird. 

Then  he  took  counsel  with  himself,  and  thought 

If  it  were  good  to  turn  his  dagger  in 

And  sheathe  it  in  his  heart ;  but,  lo  !  within 

His  soul  a  spirit  rose  —  like  those  that  flit 

From  out  deep  fountains  in  the  even-time 

To  warn  us  of  dark  ills  —  and  spread  a  mist 

Betwixt  him  and  the  thought  of  foul  self-murder. 

Straightway  he  turned,  and  said  unto  himself, 

"  The  guilty,  by  the  avenging  will  of  God, 

Are  dragged  by  secret  force  toward  the  spot 

Where  lie  their  victims.     I  will  hasten  back 

To  where  my  dead  bird  lies  by  the  steep  bank, 

And  mark  each  footstep  with  a  moan,  as  monks 

Mark  rosaries  with  prayers."  —  So  saying  went, 

With  ashen  cheek,  slow  step,  and  muttering  lips, 

Straight  to  the  spot  where  the  dead  falcon  lay. 

A  little  while  he  stood  regarding  it 


14  SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON. 

With  a  drear  wistful  look ;  then,  stooping  down, 
He  smoothed  its  ruffled  plumage  with  his  hand, 
Close/I  its  round,  staring  eyes,  and  gently  folded 
Its  stiffened  wings  along  its  breast ;  then  broke 
Into  a  lamentation  wild. 

"Obird, 

My  soul  is  darkened  in  thy  death  !  strong  grief. 
Winds  like  a  snake  about  my  heart,  and  crushes  it 
In  its  chill  clasp.     I  never  yet  did  feel 
Such  bitter  wrath  against  mine  own  right  hand 
As  I  do  now.     To  think  that  this  fond  hand, 
On  which  so  oft  thou  lovingly  hast  sat, 
Should  turn  against  thee,  and  with  one  foul  blow 
Dash  all  thy  life  away  !     0,  't  was  a  deed 
Becoming  some  vile  lackey,  whose  coarse  wrath 
Is  blinded  by  thick  blood  ;  but  not  a  knight, 
Whose  blood  was  filtered  through  three  thousand  years, 
And  to  cross  swords  with  whom  might  surely  make 
The  foe  a  gentleman  !     I  mind  me  well 
The  day  we  came  together.     Thou  wert  young, 
Scarce  fledged,  and  with  thy  talons  yet  ungrown ; 
But  there  was  courage  in  thee,  and  one  day, 
When  thou  didst  see  a  heron  in  the  sky, 
Thou  beat'st  thy  breast  against  the  window-pane, 
And  all  the  falcon  sparkled  in  thine  eyes ! 
Then  't  was  my  pride  to  deck  thee  splendidly. 
Thy  silver  bells,  wrought  in  old  Milan's  town, 
Were  shrill  as  whistle,  and  the  ascending  tones 
Were  modulated  cunningly.     Thy  hood 
Of  purple  cramoise,  worked  with  threads  of  gold, 
Came  from  that  maiden's  hand  whom  I  do  prize 
Beyond  all  other  women.     Then  thy  food 
Was  dainty  in  its  kind,  as  thou  hadst  been 


SIR  BRASIL'S  FALCON.  15 

The  merlin  of  an  emperor.     I  did  love  thee ; 
All  proves  that  I  did  love  thee ;  and  I  would 
Have  chopped  this  right  hand  from  its  arm  before 
It  should  have  hurt  thee  wittingly ;  but  I 
Am  hot,  and  when  thy  persevering  wing 
Stretched  between  me  and  death,  it  angered  me, 
And  I  —  I  —  0,  I  cannot  think  of  it, 
Except  I  curse  myself,  and  wish  myself 
Accursed  by  God  and  man ! 

0,  never  more 

Will  thy  silk  jesses  twine  around  my  wrist ! 
No  more  will  we  two  wander  in  the  dawn, 
When  the  wild-flowers  are  necklaced  all  with  dew, 
And  the  wet  grass  pulses  with  morning  life, 
To  watch  a  sedge  of  herons  by  the  stream, 
Or  listen  for  the  bittern's  lonely  boom 
Rising  from  out  the  reeds  !     No  more,  no  more, 
When  the  game  springs  from  out  the  sedgy  pool 
And  soars  aloft,  shall  I  tear  off  thy  hood, 
Unloose  thy  jesses,  and  then  launch  thee  forth 
Upon  the  deadly  race.     I  ne'er  shall  see 
Thee  rise  in  airy  spirals  to  the  clouds, 
While  the  wide  heron  labors  far  below, 
Till  when  almost  a  speck,  with  sudden  swoop, 
Like  a  live  thunderbolt,  thou  dashest  down 
Full  on  the  foe,  and,  striking  at  his  heart, 
Fall'st  fastened  to  thy  victim ! 

How  tell 

The  maiden  fair  who  worked  thy  purple  hood 
And  loved  to  stroke  thy  feathers  i'  the  sun,  — 
How  shall  I  tell  my  crime  ?     Why,  she  would  loathe  me, 
And  wave  me  from  her  sight  with  crushing  look, 
And  shut  me  from  her  heart.     I  should  be  held 


16  KANE. 

By  all  good  knights,  and  ladies  fair,  a  dastard 

Who  raised  his  hand  against  a  loving  bird, 

And  killed  it  for  its  love.     I  cannot  home  ! 

The  first  quest  I  should  hear  would  be,  '  Where  is 

Thy  falcon,  Brasil  1 '  and  could  I  reply, 

'  Three  times  it  saved  my  life,  fair  dame, 

Therefore  I  slew  it.'     0,  no  home  for  me  ! 

Here  in  this  lonely  glade  I  '11  lay  me  down 

Close  to  my  murdered  bird  —  and  then  —  and  then 

Let  what  will  come." 

The  shades  of  evening  fell, 
The  invisible  dews  dropped  spirit-like  on  earth ; 
The  woods  were  silent,  and,  when  the  white  moon 
Came  riding  o'er  their  tops,  she  sadly  saw 
The  knight  beside  the  falcon. 


KANE. 

DIED  16TH  FEBRUARY,  1857. 

I. 
ALOFT,  upon  an  old  basaltic  crag, 

Which,  scalped  by  keen  winds  that  defend  the  pole, 
Gazes  with  dead  face  on  the  seas  that  roll 
Around  the  secret  of  the  mystic  zone, 
A  mighty  nation's  star-bespangled  flag 

Flutters  alone : 
And  underneath,  upon  the  lifeless  front 

Of  that  drear  cliff,  a  simple  name  is  traced  ! 
Fit  type  of  him,  who,  famishing  and  gaunt, 
But  with  a  rocky  purpose  in  his  soul, 
Breasted  the  gathering  snows, 
Clung  to  the  drifting  floes, 


KANE.  17 

By  want  beleaguered,  and  by  winter  chased, 
Seeking  the  brother  lost  amid  that  frozen  waste. 

ii. 
Not  many  months  ago  we  greeted  him, 

Crowned  with  the  icy  honors  of  the  North. 
Across  the  land  his  hard-won  fame  went  forth, 
And  Maine's  deep  woods  were  shaken  limb  by  limb. 
His  own  mild  Keystone  State,  sedate  and  prim, 
Burst  from  its  decorous  quiet  as  he  came. 
Hot  southern  lips,  with  eloquence  aflame, 
Sounded  his  triumph.     Texas,  wild  and  grim, 
Proffered  its  horny  hand.     The  large-lunged  West 

From  out  its  giant  breast 

Yelled  its  frank  welcome.     And  from  main  to  main, 
Jubilant  to  the  sky, 
Thundered  the  mighty  cry, 
HONOR  TO  KANE! 

in. 
In  vain,  in  vain,  beneath  his  feet  we  flung 

The  reddening  roses  !     All  in  vain  we  poured 

The  golden  wine,  and  round  the  shining  board 
Sent  the  toast  circling,  till  the  rafters  rung 

With  the  thrice-tripled  honors  of  the  feast ! 

Scarce  the  buds  wilted  and  the  voices  ceased 
Ere  the  pure  light  that  sparkled  in  his  eyes, 
Bright  as  auroral  fires  in  southern  skies, 

Faded  and  faded  ;  and  the  brave  young  heart 
That  the  relentless  arctic  winds  had  robbed 
Of  all  its  vital  heat,  in  that  long  quest 
For  the  lost  Captain,  now  within  his  breast 

More  and  more  faintly  throbbed. 
His  was  the  victory ;  but  as  his  grasp 
2 


18  KANE. 

Closed  on  the  laurel  crown  with  eager  clasp, 
Death  launched  a  whistling  dart ; 
And  ere  the  thunders  of  applause  were  done 
His  bright  eyes  closed  forever  on  the  sun ! 
Too  late,  too  late,  the  splendid  prize  he  won 
In  the  Olympic  race  of  science  and  of  art ! 

IV. 

Like  to  some  shattered  berg  that,  pale  and  lone, 
Drifts  from  the  white  north  to  a  tropic  zone, 
And  in  the  burning  day 
Wastes  peak  by  peak  away, 

Till  on  some  rosy  even 
It  dies  with  sunlight  blessing  it ;  so  he 
Tranquilly  floated  to  a  southern  sea, 
And  melted  into  heaven  ! 

v. 

He  needs  no  tears,  who  lived  a  noble  life  ! 
We  will  not  weep  for  him  who  died  so  well ; 
But  we  will  gather  round  the  hearth,  and  tell 
The  story  of  his  strife. 
Such  homage  suits  him  well ; 
Better  than  funeral  pomp,  or  passing-bell ! 

VJ. 

What  tale  of  peril  and  self-sacrifice  ! 
Prisoned  amid  the  fastnesses  of  ice, 

With  hunger  howling  o'er  the  wastes  of  snow ! 

Night  lengthening  into  months ;  the  ravenous  floe 
Crunching  the  massive  ships,  as  the  white  bear 
Crunches  his  prey ;  the  insufficient  share 

Of  loathsome  food ; 
The  lethargy  of  famine ;  the  despair 

Urging  to  labor,  nervelessly  pursued ; 


KANE.  19 

Toil  done  with  skinny  arms,  and  faces  hued 
Like  pallid  masks,  while  dolefully  behind 
Glimmered  the  fading  embers  of  a  mind  ! 
That  awful  hour,  when  through  the  prostrate  band 
Delirium  stalked,  laying  his  burning  hand 

Upon  the  ghastly  foreheads  of  the  crew,  — 

The  whispers  of  rebellion,  faint  and  few 

At  first,  but  deepening  ever  till  they  grew 
Into  black  thoughts  of  murder,  —  such  the  throng 
Of  horrors  round  the  Hero.     High  the  song 
Should  be  that  hymns  the  noble  part  he  played  ! 
Sinking  himself,  yet  ministering  aid 

To  all  around  him ;  by  a  mighty  will 

Living  defiant  of  the  wants  that  kill, 
Because  his  death  would  seal  his  comrades'  fate ; 

Cheering  with  ceaseless  and  inventive  skill 
Those  polar  winters,  dark  and  desolate. 
Equal  to  every  trial,  every  fate, 

He  stands,  until  spring,  tardy  with  relief, 

Unlocks  the  icy  gate, 

And  the  pale  prisoners  thread  the  world  once  more, 
To  the  steep  cliffs  of  Greenland's  pastoral  shore, 
Bearing  their  dying  chief ! 

VII. 

Time  was  when  he  should  gain  his  spurs  of  gold 
From  royal  hands,  who  wooed  the  knightly  state  :  «• 

The  knell  of  old  formalities  is  tolled, 

And  the  world's  knights  are  now  self-consecrate. 

No  grander  episode  doth  chivalry  hold 
In  all  its  annals,  back  to  Charlemagne, 
Than  that  long  vigil  of  unceasing  pain, 

Faithfully  kept,  through  hunger  and  through  cold, 
By  the  good  Christian  knight,  Elisha  Kane ! 


20  THE  LOST  STEAMSHIP. 


THE   LOST   STEAMSHIP. 

'  Ho,  there  !     Fisherman,  hold  your  hand  ! 

Tell  me  what  is  that  far  away,  — 
There,  where  over  the  isle  of  sand 

Hangs  the  mist-cloud  sullen  and  gray  1 
See  !  it  rocks  with  a  ghastly  life, 

Rising  and  rolling  through  clouds  of  spray, 
Right  in  the  midst  of  the  breakers'  strife,  — 

Tell  me  what  is  it,  Fisherman,  pray  I ' 

1  That,  good  sir,  was  a  steamer  stout 

As  ever  paddled  around  Cape  Race ; 
And  many 's  the  wild  and  stormy  bout 

She  had  with  the  winds,  in  that  selfsame  place ; 
But  her  time  was  come ;  and  at  ten  o'clock 

Last  night  she  struck  on  that  lonesome  shore ; 
And  her  sides  were  gnawed  by  the  hidden  rock, 

And  at  dawn  this  morning  she  was  no  more.' 

'  Come,  as  you  seem  to  know,  good  man, 

The  terrible  fate  of  this  gallant  ship, 
Tell  me  about  her  all  that  you  can ; 

And  here 's  my  flask  to  moisten  your  lip. 
Tell  me  how  many  she  had  aboard,  — 

Wives,  and  husbands,  and  lovers  true,  — 
How  did  it  fare  with  her  human  hoard  *\ 

Lost  she  many,  or  lost  she  few  1 ' 

4  Master,  I  may  not  drink  of  your  flask, 
Already  too  moist  I  feel  my  lip ; 


THE  LOST  STEAMSHIP.  21 

But  I  'm  ready  to  do  what  else  you  ask, 
And  spin  you  my  yarn  about  the  ship  : 

'T  was  ten  o'clock,  as  I  said,  last  night, 

When  she  struck  the  breakers  and  went  ashore ; 

And  scarce  had  broken  the  morning's  light 

Than  she  sank  in  twelve  feet  of  water  or  more, 

*  But  long  ere  this  they  knew  her  doom, 

And  the  captain  called  all  hands  to  prayer ; 
And  solemnly  over  the  ocean's  boom 

Their  orisons  wailed  on  the  troublous  air. 
And  round  about  the  vessel  there  rose 

Tall  plumes  of  spray  as  white  as  snow, 
Like  angels  in  their  ascension  clothes, 

Waiting  for  those  who  prayed  below. 

*  So  these  three  hundred  people  clung 

As  well  as  they  could  to  spar  and  rope  ; 
With  a  word  of  prayer  upon  every  tongue, 

Nor  on  any  face  a  glimmer  of  hope. 
But  there  was  no  blubbering  weak  and  wild,  — 

Of  tearful  faces  I  saw  but  one, 
A  rough  old  salt,  who  cried  like  a  child, 

And  not  for  himself,  but  the  captain's  son. 

'  The  captain  stood  on  the  quarter-deck, 

Firm,  but  pale,  with  trumpet  in  hand ; 
Sometimes  he  looked  at  the  breaking  wreck, 

Sometimes  he  sadly  looked  to  land. 
And  often  he  smiled  to  cheer  the  crew  — 

But,  Lord  !  the  smile  was  terrible  grim  — 
Till  over  the  quarter  a  huge  sea  flew ; 

And  thatjnras  the  last  they  saw  of  him. 


22  THE  LOST  STEAMSHIP. 

*  I  saw  one  young  fellow  with  his  bride, 

Standing  amidships  upon  the  wreck ; 
His  face  was  white  as  the  boiling  tide, 

And  she  was  clinging  about  his  neck. 
And  I  saw  them  try  to  say  good-by, 

But  neither  could  hear  the  other  speak ; 
So  they  floated  away  through  the  sea  to  die  — 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  cheek  to  cheek. 

'  And  there  was  a  child,  but  eight  at  best, 

"Who  went  his  way  in  a  sea  she  shipped ; 
All  the  while  holding  upon  his  breast 

A  little  pet  parrot  whose  wings  were  clipped. 
And  as  the  boy  and  the  bird  went  by, 

Swinging  away  on  a  tall  wave's  crest, 
They  were  gripped  by  a  man,  with  a  drowning  cry, 

And  together  the  three  went  down  to  rest. 

1  And  so  the  crew  went  one  by  one, 

Some  with  gladness,  and  few  with  fear ; 
Cold  and  hardship  such  work  had  done 

That  few  seemed  frightened  when  death  was  near. 
Thus  every  soul  on  board  went  down,  — 

Sailor  and  passenger,  little  and  great ; 
The  last  that  sank  was  a  man  of  my  town, 

A  capital  swimmer,  —  the  second  mate.' 

*  Now,  lonely  fisherman,  who  are  you 

That  say  you  saw  this  terrible  wreck  ? 
How  do  I  know  what  you  say  is  true, 

When  every  mortal  was  swept  from  the  deck  ? 
Where  were  you  in  that  hour  of  death  ? 

How  did  you  learn  what  you  relate  ? ' 
His  answer  came  in  an  under-breath,  — 

1  Master,  I  was  the  second  mate  ! '    * 


A  FALLEN  STAR.  23 


A  FALLEN  STAR. 


I  SAUNTERED  home  across  the  park, 

And  slowly  smoked  my  last  cigar ; 
The  summer  night  was  still  and  dark, 
With  not  a  single  star  : 

And,  conjured  by  I  know  not  what, 

A  memory  floated  through  my  brain, 
The  vision  of  a  friend  forgot, 

Or  thought  of  now  with  pain. 

A  brilliant  boy  that  once  I  knew, 

In  far-off,  happy  days  of  old, 
With  sweet,  frank  face,  and  eyes  of  blue, 
And  hair  that  shone  like  gold  : 

Fresh  crowned  with  college  victory, 

The  boast  and  idol  of  his  class,  — 
With  heart  as  pure,  and  warm,  and  free 
As  sunshine  on  the  grass ! 

A  figure  sinewy,  lithe,  and  strong, 

A  laugh  infectious  in  its  glee, 
A  voice  as  beautiful  as  song, 
When  heard  along  the  sea. 

On  me,  the  man  of  sombre  thought, 

The  radiance  of  his  friendship  won, 
As  round  an  autumn  tree  is  wrought 
The  enchantment  of  the  sun. 


24  A  FALLEN  STAR. 

He  loved  me  with  a  tender  truth, 

He  clung  to  me  as  clings  the  vine, 
And,  like  a  brimming  fount  of  youth, 
His  nature  freshened  mine. 

Together  hand  in  hand  we  walked ; 

We  threaded  pleasant  country  ways, 
Or,  couched  beneath  the  limes,  we  talked, 
On  sultry  summer  days. 

For  me  he  drew  aside  the  veil 

Before  his  bashful  heart  that  hung, 
And  told  a  sweet,  ingenuous  tale 
That  trembled  on  his  tongue. 

He  read  me  songs  and  amorous  lays, 

Where  through  each  slender  line  a  fire 
Of  love  flashed  lambently,  as  plays 
The  lightning  through  the  wire. 

A  nobler  maid  he  never  knew 

Than  she  he  longed  to  call  his  wife ; 
A  fresher  nature  never  grew 
Along  the  shores  of  life. 

Thus  rearing  diamond  arches  up 

Whereon  his  future  life  to  build, 
He  quaffed  all  day  the  golden  cup 
That  youthful  fancy  filled. 

Like  fruit  upon  a  southern  slope, 

He  ripened  on  all  natural  food,  — 
The  winds  that  thrill  the  skyey  cope, 
The  sunlight's  golden  blood  : 


V) 

M 


§ 


1 


n  ?isj 


m 


i 


4 

a 


,  1 


A  FALLEN  STAR.  25 

And  in  his  talk  I  oft  discerned 

A  timid  music  vaguely  heard ; 
The  fragments  of  a  song  scarce  learned, 
The  essays  of  a  bird,  — 

The  first  faint  notes  the  poet's  breast, 

Ere  yet  his  pinions  warrant  flight, 
Will,  on  the  margin  of  the  nest,  , 

Utter  with  strange  delight. 

Thus  rich  with  promise  was  the  boy, 

When,  swept  abroad  by  circumstance, 
We  parted,  —  he  to  live,  enjoy, 
And  I  to  war  with  chance. 

ii.  - 

The  air  was  rich  with  fumes  of  wine 

When  next  we  met.     'T  was  at  a  feast, 
And  he,  the  boy  I  thought  divine, 
Was  the  unhallowed  priest. 

There  was  the  once  familiar  grace, 

The  old,  enchanting  smile  was  there ; 
Still  shone  around  his  handsome  face 
The  glory  of  his  hair. 

But  the  pure  beauty  that  I  knew 

Had  lowered  through  some  ignoble  task ; 
Apollo's  head  was  peering  through 
A  drunken  bacchant's  mask. 

The  smile,  once  honest  as  the  day, 
Now  waked  to  words  of  grossest  wit ; 


26  A  FALLEN  STAR. 

The  eyes,  so  simply  frank  and  gay, 
With  lawless  fires  were  lit. 

He  was  the  idol  of  the  board ; 

He  led  the  careless,  wanton  throng ; 
The  soul  that  once  to  heaven  had  soared 
Now  grovelled  in  a  song. 

He  wildly  flung  his  wit  away 

In  small  retort,  in  verbal  brawls, 
And  played  with  words  as  jugglers  play 
With  hollow  brazen  balls. 

But  often  when  the  laugh  was  loud, 

And  highest  gleamed  the  circling  bowl, 
I  saw  what  unseen  passed  the  crowd,  — 
The  shadow  on  his  soul. 

And  soon  the  enigma  was  unlocked ; 
The  harrowing  history  I  heard,  — 
The  sacred  duties  that  he  mocked, 
The  forfeiture  of  word. 

And  how  he  did  his  love  a  wrong  — 

His  wild  remorse  —  his  mad  career  — 
And  now  —  ah  !  hearken  to  that  song, 
And  hark  the  answering  cheer ! 

in. 

Thus  musing  sadly  on  the  law 

That  lets  such  brilliant  meteors  quench, 
Down  the  dark  path  a  form  I  saw 
Uprising  from  a  bench. 


A  FALLEN  STAR.  27 

Ragged  and  pale,  in  strident  tones 

It  asked  for  alms,  —  I  knew  for  what ; 
The  tremor  shivering  through  its  bones 
Was  eloquent  of  the  sot. 

It  begged,  it  prayed,  it  whined,  it  cried,  „ 

It  followed  with  a  shuffling  tramp,  — 
It  would  not,  could  not  be  denied,  — 
I  turned  beneath  a  lamp. 

It  clutched  the  coins  I  gave,  and  fled 

With  muttered  words  of  horrid  glee, 
When,  like  the  white,  returning  dead, 
A  vision  rose  to  me. 

A  nameless  something  in  its  air, 

A  sudden  gesture  as  it  moved,  — 
'T  was  he,  the  gay,  the  debonnaire  ! 
'T  was  he,  the  boy  I  loved  ! 

And  while  along  the  lonesome  park 

The  eager  drunkard  sped  afar, 
I  looked  to  heaven,  and  through  the  dark 
I  saw  a  falling  star ! 


28  THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SHAMROCK. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SHAMROCK. 

MY  boy  left  me  just  twelve  years  ago  : 

'T  was  the  black  year  of  famine,  of  sickness  and  woe, 

When  the  crops  died  out,  and  the  people  died  too, 

And  the  land  into  one  great  grave-yard  grew ; 

And  our  neighbors'  faces  were  as  white  and  thin 

As  the  face  of  the  moon  when  she  first  comes  in ; 

And  honest  men's  hearts  were  rotten  with  blight, 

And  they  thieved  and  prowled  like  the  wolves  at  night ; 

When  the  whole  land  was  dark  as  dark  could  be,  — 

'T  was  then  that  Donal,  my  boy,  left  me. 

We  were  turned  from  our  farm  where  we  'd  lived  so  long, 
For  we  could  n't  pay  the  rent,  and  the  law  was  strong ; 
From  our  low  meadow  lands,  and  flax  fields  blue, 
And  the  handsome  green  hill  where  the  yellow  furze  grew, 
And  the  honest  old  cow  that,  each  evening,  would  stand 
At  the  little  gate,  lowing  to  be  milked  by  my  hand ; 
And  the  small  patch  of  garden  at  the  end  of  the  lawn, 
Where  Donal  grew  sweet  flowers  for  his  Colleen  Bawn ; 
But  Donal  and  I  had  to  leave  all  these,  — 
I  to  live  with  father,  and  he  to  cross  the  seas. 

For  Donal  was  as  proud  as  any  king's  son, 
And  swore  he  'd  not  stand  by  and  see  such  wrongs  done, 
But  would  seek  a  fortune  out  in  the  wide,  wide  West, 
Where  the  honest  can  find  labor  and  the  weary  rest ; 
And  as  soon  as  he  was  able  why  then  he  'd  send  for  me 
To  rest  my  poor  old  head  in  his  home  across  the  sea : 
And  then  his  young  face  flushed  like  a  June  sky  at  dawn, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SHAMROCK.  29 

As  he  said  that  he  was  thinking  how  his  Colleen  Bawn 
Could  come  along  to  help  me  to  keep  the  house  straight, 
For  he  knew  how  much  she  loved  him,  and  she  'd  prom- 
ised him  to  wait. 

I  think  I  see  him  now,  as  he  stood  one  blessed  day, 
With  his  pale  smiling  face  upon  the  Limerick  quay, 
And  I  lying  on  his  breast,  with  his  long,  curly  hair 
Blowing  all  about  my  shoulders  as  if  to  keep  me  there ; 
And  the  quivering  of  his  lip,  that  he  tried  to  keep  so 

proud,  — 
Not  because   of  his  old  mother,  but  the  idle,  curious 

crowd,  — 
Then  the  hoisting  of  the  anchor,  and  the  flapping  of  the 

sail, 

And  the  stopping  of  my  heart  when  the  wild,  Irish  wail 
From  the  mothers,  and  the  children,  and  the  kinsfolk  on 

the  quay 
Told  me  plainer  than  all  words  that  my  darling  was  away. 

Ten  years  went  dragging  by,  and  I  heard  but  now  and 

then,  — 
For  my  Donal,  though  a  brave  boy,  was  no  scholar  with 

the  pen ; 

But  he  sent  me  kindly  words,  and  bade  me  not  despair, 
And  sometimes  sent  me  money,  perhaps  more  than   he 

could  spare ; 

So  I  waited  and  I  prayed  until  it  came  to  pass 
That  Father  Pat  he  wanted  me  one  Sunday  after  mass, 
When  I  went,  a  little  fearsome,  to  the  back  vestry-room, 
Where  his  reverence  sat  a-smiling  like  a  sunflower  in  the 

gloom  : 
And  then  he  up  and  told  me  —  God  bless  him  !  —  that 

my  boy 
Had  sent  to  bring  me  over,  and  I  nearly  died  for  joy. 


30  THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SHAMROCK. 

All  day  I  was  half-crazed  as  I  wandered  through  the 
house ; 

The  dropping  of  the  sycamore  seeds,  or  the  scramble  of  a 
mouse, 

Thrilled  through  me  like  a  gun-shot;  I  durst  not  look 
behind, 

For  the  pale  face  of  my  darling  was  always  in  my  mind. 

The  pale  face  so  sorrowful,  the  eyes  so  large  and  dark, 

And  soft  shining  as  the  deer's  are  in  young  Lord  Massy's 
park; 

And  the  long  chestnut  hair  blown  loosely  by  the  wind, — 

All  this  seemed  at  my  shoulder,  and  I  dared  not  look  be- 
hind, 

But  I  said  in  my  own  heart,  it  is  but  the  second  sight 

Of  the  day  when  I  shall  kiss  him,  all  beautiful  and  bright. 

Then  I  made  my  box  ready  to  go  across  the  sea, 
My  boy  had  sent  a  ticket,  so  my  passage  it  was  free ; 
But  all  the  time  I  longed  that  some  little  gift  I  had 
To  take  across  the  ocean  to  my  own  dear  lad ; 
A  pin,  or  a  chain,  or  something  of  the  kind, 
Just  to  'mind  the  poor  boy  of  the  land  he  'd  left  behind. 
But  I  was  too  poor  to  buy  it,  so  I  'd  nothing  left  to  do 
But  to  go  to  the  old  farm,  the  homestead  that  he  knew ; 
To  the  handsome  green  hill  where  my  Donal  used  to  play, 
And  cut  a  sod  of  shamrock  for  the  exile  far  away. 

All  through  the  voyage  I  nursed  it,  and  watered  it  each  day, 
And  kept  its  green  leaves   sheltered   from  the  salt-sea 

spray, 
And  I  'd  bring  it  upon  deck  when  the  sun  was  shining 

fair, 
To  watch  its  triple  leaflets  opening  slowly  in  the  air. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SHAMROCK.  31 

At  first  the  sailors  langhed  at  my  little  sod  of  grass, 
But  when  they  knew  my  object  they  gently  let  me  pass ; 
And  the  ladies  in  the  cabin  were  very  kind  to  me ; 
They  made  me  tell  the  story  of  my  boy  across  the  sea  : 
So  I  told  them  of  my  Donal,  and  his  fair,  manly  face, 
Till  bare  speaking  of  my  darling  made  a  sunshine  in  the 
place. 

We  landed  at  the  Battery  in  New  York's  big  bay, 

The  sun  was  shining  grandly,  and  the  wharves  looked  gay. 

But  I  could  see  no  sunshine  nor  beauty  in  the  place, 

What  I  only  cared  to  look  on  was  Donal's  sweet  face ; 

But  in  all  the  great  crowd,  and  I  turned  everywhere, 

I  could  not  see  a  sign  of  him,  —  my  darling  was  not  there ; 

I  asked  the  men  around  me  to  go  and  find  my  son, 

But  they  only  stared  or  laughed,  and  left  me,  one  by  one, 

Till  at  last  an  old  countryman  came  up  to  me  and  said  — 

How  could  I  live  to  hear  it  1  —  that  Donal  was  dead  ! 

The  shamrock  sod  is  growing  on  Greenwood's  hill-side. 

It  grows  above  the  heart  of  my  darling  and  my  pride ; 

And  on  summer  days  I  sit  by  the  headstone  all  day, 

With  my  heart  growing  old  and  my  head  growing  gray  ; 

And  I  watch  the  dead  leaves  whirl  from  the  sycamore- 
trees, 

And  wonder  why  it  is  that  I  can't  die  like  these ; 

But  I  think  that  this  same  winter,  and  frofn  my  heart  I 
hope, 

I  '11  be  lying  nice  and  quiet  upon  Greenwood's  slope, 

With  my  darling  close  beside  me  underneath  the  trickling 
dew, 

And  the  shamrocks  creeping  pleasantly  above  us  two. 


32  AMAZON. 


AMAZON. 

I  BURN  to  tell  my  love ;  to  call  her  mine ; 

To  pour  upon  her  heart  the  fiery  tide 
That  fills  my  own ;  to  open  my  soul's  shrine 

And  show  her  her  own  image  deified  ! 

But  vain  the  web  my  brain  untiring  weaves ; 

For  hours  I  school  in  vain  my  spellbound  tongue. 
My  passion  hangs,  unuttered,  on  the  eaves 

Of  my  soul's  portal.     Of  a  love  unsung 
I  am  the  minstrel,  for  I  sing  alone. 

My  own  heart  is  my  hermitage,  and  there 
I  chant  impassioned  hymns,  and  weep,  and  groan, 

And  to  love's  phantom  dedicate  my  prayer. 
When  on  a  lonely  couch  my  head  I  lay, 

What  mystic  eloquence  comes  to  me  unsought ! 
In  fervent  litanies  to  her  I  pray, 

And  tell  my  love  in  rosaries  of  thought. 
A  bold  and  reckless  suitor  in  the  night,  — 

A  weak  and  silent  coward  in  the  day ; 
When  all  is  dark  I  long  to  greet  the  light, 

But  dazzled  when  light  comes,  I  turn  away  ! 

0,  you  should  see  her !     She  is,  of  all  queens 

That  drive  their  chariots  over  bleeding  hearts, 
The  loveliest  one  !     Not  by  her  sex's  means 

She  won  her  throne.     She  has  no  need  of  arts. 
Born  to  enslave,  she  conquers  with  a  glance ; 

All  blandishments  and  subtile  wiles  disdains ; 
A  heretic  to  the  antique  romance, 

To  know  she  is,  is  knowing  that  she  reigns. 


AMAZON.  33 

Like  the  phosphoric  trees  in  forests  dark 

She  lights  all  hearts,  and  yet  herself  is  cold ; 

And  woe  to  him  who,  dazzled  by  the  spark, 
Hopes  for  a  heat  her  heart  can  never  hold  ! 

But  she  is  beautiful !     No  vocal  dream 

Warbled  in  slumber  by  the  nightingale, 
Can  match  her  voice's  music.      Sculptors  seem, 

When  most  inspired,  to  copy  her  —  and  fail ! 
To  gaze  on  her  is  song  unto  the  sight ; 

A  harmony  of  vision,  heaven-sent,  * 

Where  all  the  tones  of  human  charms  unite, 

And  are  in  one  majestic  woman  blent ! 

But  once  I  thought  she  loved  me.     Bitter  hour, 

Whose  mingled  joy  tind  torment  haunt  me  still ! 
Her  eyes  look  out  from  every  starry  flower ; 

I  hear  her  mocking  laugh  in  every  rill. 
Yet  on  this  grief  I  love  to  muse  alone  — 

It  is  a  key  that  hath  my  nature  tuned ; 
Upon  my  riven  heart  I  gaze  as  one 

Grows  to  companionship  with  even  his  wound. 

'T  was  in  the  autumn  woods  we  rode  one  morn 

To  hunt  the  deer,  with  wild  and  willing  steeds. 
The  young  wind  gayly  blew  his  mellow  horn, 

And  beat  the  tangled  coverts  of  the  reeds. 
The  golden  elms  tossed  high  their  lucent  leaves, 

While  on  their  giant  boles,  so  rough  in  form, 
The  rugged  bark  stood  out  in  corded  sheaves, 

Like  muscles  swoln  in  wrestling  with  the  storm! 

A  sudden,  wayward  fancy  seized  us  here 
To  pause  and  act  a  leafy  masquerade. 
3 


34  AMAZON. 

No  idle  tongues  nor  curious  eyes  were  near, 

And  silent  splendor  filled  the  sunlit  glade. 
So,  gathering  armfuls  of  the  autumn  vines, 

I  wove  their  red  ropes  round  the  passive  girl, 
Looping  the  tendrils  of  the  blushing  vines 

Round  arms,  and  head,  and  each  escaping  curl. 
Then  through  her  horse's  mane  that  blackly  shone, 

I  plaited  mosses  long  and  leaden-hued, 
Until  she  seemed  like  some  young  Amazon 

Chained  by  the  mighty  monach  of  the  wood. 

« 

0  mockery  of  conquest !     Hidden  sting ! 

0  triumph  treacherous  as  the  sleeping  seas  ! 
She  played  the  captive,  —  /,  the  victor-king, 

Threading  triumphal  arches  through  the  trees ! 

Sudden,  with  one  wild  burst  of  regal  might 

She  flung  her  fluttering  fetters  to  the  wind ; 
She  and  her  steed  with  bound  of  fierce  delight 

Dashed  through  the  crashing  boughs  that  closed  behind. 
And  so  she  vanished.     From  the  distance  dim 

Her  scornful  laughter  floated  to  my  ear ; 
A  jest  for  her,  —  for  me  a  funeral  hymn, 

Sung  o'er  a  love  that  froze  upon  its  bier  ! 

How  shall  I  conquer  her  1     Since  that  cursed  day 
Her  image  stands  between  me  and  the  world ! 

Around  my  cup  of  life  where  flowers  should  lay, 
Forbidding  me,  a  poisoned  snake  is  curled. 

As  heron  chased  by  hawk  I  soar  through  space, 
The  fatal  shafts  of  her  disdain  to  shun, 

And  seek  the  clouds ;  but  vain  the  dizzy  race,  — 

1  find  her  still  between  me  and  the  sun ! 


THE  MAN  AT  THE  DOOR.  35 

0  queen,  enthroned  upon  an  icy  height, 

What  holocaust  does  thy  proud  heart  desire  1 
When  will  it  flame  like  beacon  through  the  night 

With  fiery  answer  to  another's  fire  ] 
Ah  !  why  so  cold  —  so  ever  cold  to  me  1 

I  chafe  —  I  chafe  all  day  from  dawn  to  dark, 
As  chafes  the  wave  of  Adria's  glowing  sea 

Against  the  pulseless  marble  of  Saint  Mark ! 


THE   MAN   AT   THE   DOOR. 

i. 

How  joyous  to-day  is  the  little  old  town, 

With  banners  and  streamers  as  cheery  as  spring  ! 
They  flutter  on  turrets  and  battlements  brown, 

And  the  ancient  cathedral  is  fine  as  a  king. 
The  sexton  a  nosegay  has  put  in  his  breast, 

And  his  face  is  as  bright  as  a  Jericho  rose, 
That,  after  a  century's  withering  rest, 

Unwrinkles  its  petals  and  suddenly  blows. 

n. 
The  brown-breasted  swallows  aloft  and  alow 

Swoop  faster  and  further  than  ever  before, 
And  I  'm  sure  that  the  cock  on  the  steeple  will  crow 

When  he  hears  from  the  city  the  jubilant  roar. 
The  girls  are  as  gay  as  a  holiday  fleet, 

Their  ribbons  are  streaming  from  bosom  and  hair, 
And  they  laugh  in  the  face  of  each  young  man  they  meet, 

And  the  young  men  reply  with  an  insolent  stare. 


36  THE  MAN  AT  THE  DOOR. 

III. 
'T  is  not  without  reason  the  old  town  is  gay, 

And  banners  and  ribbons  are  reddening  the  air, 
For  beautiful  Bertha  will  marry  to-day 

With  gallant  young  Albert,  the  son  of  the  Mayor. 
He  is  brown  as  a  nut  from  the  hazels  of  Spain  ; 

Her  face,  like  the  twilight,  is  pensive  and  sweet ; 
As  they  march  hand  in  hand  through  the  murmuring 
lane, 

Low  blessings,  like  flowers,  fall  unseen  at  their  feet. 


IV. 

While  they  sweep  like  twin  barks  through  the  waves  of 
the  crowd, 

A  story  is  falling  from  many  a  tongue, 
Of  the  young  gypsy  prince  who,  a  year  ago,  bowed 

At  the  shrine  where  a  hundred  their  passion  had  sung ; 
And  how  Bertha  heaped  scorn  on  his  love  and  his  race, 

How  she  flung  in  the  street  the  rich  presents  he  sent, 
Until  he,  with  the  hatred  of  hell  in  his  face, 
*    Went  sullenly  back  to  his  tribe  and  his  tent. 


v. 
Soon  all  stories  are  hushed  in  a  gathering  roar, 

And  the  people  sway  back  like  the  ebb  of  a  tide, 
And  the  rosy  old  sexton  stands  by  the  church-door, 

To  merrily  welcome  the  bridegroom  and  bride  : 
But  his  glee  is  so  great  that  he  does  not  behold 

The  tall  man  that  stands  near  the  pillar,  hard  by, 
Nor  the  flash  of  the  dagger  that 's  hafted  with  gold, 

Nor  the  still  keener  flash  of  the  lowering  eye. 


THE  ENCHANTED  TITAN.  37 

VI. 

On  they  come,  and  the  sexton  bows  low  to  the  ground, 

The  bride  smiles  a  welcome,  the  bells  ring  a  chime, 
While  a  grand  acclamation,  in  surges  of  sound, 

Thrills  up  through  the  sky  like  a  sonorous  rhyme. 
They  are  under  the  porch  —  when,  one  dash  through  the 
crowd, 

One  flash  of  a  dagger,  one  shriek  of  despair, 
And  Bertha  falls  dead  ;  while,  stern-visaged  and  proud, 

The  swarthy-skinned  prince  of  the  gypsies  is  there  ! 

VII. 

How  sombre  to-day  is  the  little  old  town, 

With  mourning,  and  sables,  and  funeral  display; 
Long  weepers  are  hanging  from  battlements  brown, 

And  the  ancient  cathedral  is  haggard  and  gray. 
The  sexton  a  white  rose  has  put  in  his  breast, 

While  his  face  is  as  blank  as  a  snow-laden  sky ; 
For  Bertha  and  Albert  have  gone  to  their  rest, 

And  the  prince  of  the  gypsies  is  swinging  on  high. 


THE   ENCHANTED   TITAN. 


CURSE  you !     0,  a  hundred  thousand  curses 
Weigh  upon  your  soul,  you  black  enchanter ! 

Could  I  pour  them  like  the  coins  from  purses, 
I  would  utter  such  a  pile  instanter 

As  would  crush  you  to  a  bloody  pulp. 

But  my  rage  I  fain  am  forced  to  gulp ; 


38  THE  ENCHANTED  TITAN. 

Anathemas  are  vain  against  cold  iron, 
Nor  can  I  swear  this  magic  box  asunder, 

Where  I  've  been  stifling  since  the  days  of  Chiron, 

Fretting  on  tempered  bolts,  and  hurling  muffled  thunder. 

ii. 
Through  the  chinks  I  see  the  dim  green  waters 

Filled  with  sunshine,  or  with  moonlight  hazy ; 
Through  them  swim  the  oceanic  daughters, 

Beautiful  enough  to  drive  me  crazy. 
The  fishes  gaze  at  me  with  sphery  eyes, 
And  seem  to  say,  with  cold-blooded  surprise, 
What  Titan  is  it,  that  }s  so  barred  and  bolted, 

Caged  like  a  rat  in  some  infernal  cellar  1 
Why  even  Enceladus,  when  the  dog  revolted, 

Was  not  so  hardly  treated  by  the  Cloud-Compeller ! 

in. 
And  all,  forsooth,  because  I  loved  his  daughter ! 

Loved  that  child  of  spells  and  incantation ; 
Love  her  now,  beneath  this  dreary  water, 

Love  her  through  eternal  tribulation  ! 
I  wonder  if  her  lips  lament  me  still, 
In  her  enchanted  castle  on  the  hill  1 
Or  has  she  yielded  to  that  damned  magician, 

And  with  my  pygmy  rival  weakly  wedded  1 
0  Jove  !  the  torment  of  this  bare  suspicion 

Preying  forevef  on  my  heart,  and  like  the  Hydra  headed  ! 

IV. 

0  bitter  day,  when  spells,  like  snakes  uprearing, 
Enwrapped  my  limbs,  and,  muscular  as  pliant, 

Pinioned  my  struggling  arms,  until  despairing 
I  lay  upon  the  earth,  a  captured  giant ! 


LOSS.  39 

Then  came  the  horror  of  this  iron  box,  — 
The  closing  of  its  huge  enchanted  locks ; 
Then  the  cursed  wizard  to  the  windy  summit 

Of  the  tall  cape  a  coffered  prisoner  bore  me, 
And  flung  me  off,  until,  like  seaman's  plummet, 

I  sank,  and  the  drear  ocean  closed  forever  o'er  me! 


LOSS. 

STRETCHED  silver-spun  the  spider's  nets ; 

The  quivering  sky  was  white  with  fire ; 
The  blackbird's  scarlet  epaulettes 

Reddened  the  hemlock's  topmost  spire. 

The  mountain,  in  his  purple  cloak, 

His  feet  with  misty  vapors  wet, 
Lay  dreamily,  and  seemed  to  smoke 

All  day  his  giant  calumet. 

From  farm-house  bells  the  noonday  rung ; 

The  teams  that  ploughed  the  furrows  stopped ; 
The  ox  refreshed  his  lolling  tongue, 

And  brows  were  wiped  and  spades  were  dropped ; 

And  down  the  field  the  mowers  stepped, 
With  burning  brows  and  figures  lithe, 

As  in  their  brawny  hands  they  swept 
From  side  to  side  the  hissing  scythe ; 

Till  sudden  ceased  the  noonday  task, 

The  scythes  'mid  swaths  of  grass  lay  still, 

As  girls  with  can  and  cider-flask 
Came  romping  gayly  down  the  hill. 


40  LOSS. 

And  over  all  there  swept  a  stream 
Of  subtile  music,  felt,  not  heard, 

As  when  one  conjures  in  a  dream 
The  distant  singing  of  a  bird. 

I  drank  the  glory  of  the  scene, 

Its  autumn  splendor  fired  my  veins ; 

The  woods  were  like  an  Indian  queen 
Who  gazed  upon  her  old  domains. 

And  ah  !  methought  I  heard  a  sigh 
Come  softly  through  her  leafy  lips ; 

A  mourning  over  days  gone  by, 

That  were  before  the  white  man's  ships. 

And  so  I  came  to  think  on  Loss,  — 
I  never  much  could  think  on  Gain ; 

A  poet  oft  will  woo  a  cross 

On  whom  a  crown  is  pressed  in  vain. 

I  came  to  think  —  I  know  not  how, 

Perchance  through  sense  of  Indian  wrong 

Of  losses  of  my  own,  that  now 

Broke  for  the  first  time  into  song ;  — 

A  fluttering  strain  of  feeble  words 

That  scarcely  dared  to  leave  my  breast ; 

But  like  a  brood  of  fledgling  birds 

Kept  hovering  round  their  natal  nest. 

*  0  loss  ! '  I  sang,  — '  0  early  loss  ! 

0  blight  that  nipped  the  buds  of  spring  ! 
0  spell  that  turned  the  gold  to  dross ! 

0  steel  that  clipped  the  untried  wing ! 


LOSS.  41 

1 1  mourn  all  days,  as  sorrows  he 

Whom  once  they  called  a  merchant  prince 

Over  the  ships  he  sent  to  sea, 
And  never,  never  heard  of  since. 

1  To  ye,  0  woods,  the  annual  May 

Restores  the  leaves  ye  lost  before ; 
The  tide  that  now  forsakes  the  bay 

This  flight  will  wash  the  widowed  shore. 

'  But  I  shall  never  see  again 

The  shape  that  smiled  upon  my  youth ; 
A  mist  of  sorrow  veils  my  brain, 

And  dimly  looms  the  light  of  truth. 

'  She  faded,  fading  woods,  like  you ! 

And  fleeting  shone  with  sweeter  grace  ; 
And  as  she  died,  the  colors  grew 

To  softer  splendor  in  her  face. 

'  Until  one  day  the  hectic  flush 

Was  veiled  with  death's  eternal  snow ; 

She  swept  from  earth  amid  a  hush, 
And  I  was  left  alone  below ! ' 

While  thus  I  moaned  I  heard  a  peal 
Of  laughter  through  the  meadows  flow ; 

I  saw  the  farm-boys  at  their  meal,  — 
I  saw  the  cider  circling  go. 

And  still  the  mountain  calmly  slept, 

His  feet  with  valley  vapors  wet ; 
And  slowly  circling  upward  crept 

The  smoke  from  out  his  calumet. 


42  OUR  CHRISTMAS-TREE. 

Mine  was  the  sole  discordant  breath 

That  marred  this  dream  of  peace  below. 

'  0  God  ! '  I  cried,  'give,  give  me  death, 
Or  give  me  grace  to  bear  thy  blow  ! ' 


OUR   CHRISTMAS-TREE. 

0  MADAM  MILLIONNAIRE, 
So  wealthy  and  so  fair, 

1  know  how  rich  and  rare 

Is  your  Christmas-tree. 
There  the  ruddy  apples  swing, 
And  the  gilded  bonbons  cling, 
And  't  is  gaudy  as  a  king 

In  some  Indian  sea. 

A  hundred  tapers  shine 
In  the  foliage  of  the  pine, 
And  gifts  of  rare  design 

Make  the  branches  gay. 
And  in  the  outer  room, 
Decked  with  satin  and  with  plume, 
Like  roses  in  their  bloom, 

Sweet  children  play. 

But  this  very  Christmas  night, 
When  your  home  's  so  warm  and  bright, 
And  your  children's  hearts  are  light 
As  the  thistle's  down, 


OUR  CHRISTMAS-TREE.  43 

I  am  sitting  by  my  hearth, 
With  not  a  ray  of  mirth, 
But  a  feeling  as  of  dearth, 
And,  I  fear,  a  frown. 


For  I  'm  very,  very  poor, 
And  the  wolf  is  at  my  door, 
And  a  shadow  Js  on  my  floor 

That  will  not  pass  by ; 
But  I  do  not  envy  you, 
For  my  heart  at  least  is  true, 
And,  thank  God,  there  are  so  few 

As  poor  as  I ! 


The  weary  mother  sits 
On  a  little  stool,  and  knits, 
While  across  her  face  there  flits 

Look  sad  to  see. 
Our  eldest  gravely  sighs 
With  a  face  of  sad  surmise, 
And  our  youngest  darling  cries 

For  her  Christmas-tree. 


So  I  hush  the  little  one, 
And  talk  cheerly  to  my  son, 
And  try  to  make  some  fun 

Out  of  Christmas-trees ; 
And  I  tell  them  how  I  've  planned 
A  tree  more  fine  and  grand 
Than  ever  grew  on  land 

Or  by  distant  seas. 


44  OUR  CHRISTMAS-TREE. 

My  tree  is  very  high,  — 
For  it  reaches  to  the  sky, 
And  sweet  birds  passing  by 

There  fold  their  wings. 
Its  leaves  are  ever  green, 
With  a  wondrous  glossy  sheen, 
And  the  summer  wind  serene 

Around  it  sings. 


And  I  Ve  hung  upon  my  tree 
A  myriad  gifts  you  see, 
And  all  the  world  is  free 

To  come  and  take. 
There  is  love  and -gentle  mirth, 
There  's  a  happy  home  and  hearth, 
And  "  Peace  to  all  on  earth," 

For  the  Christ-child's  sake. 


There  are  sweet  and  soothing  words 
Melodious  as  the  birds, 
There  is  charity  that  herds 

With  the  poor  forlorn. 
There  are  pardons  for  all  wrongs, 
And  cheerful  peasant  songs, 
And  the  virtue  that  belongs 

To  the  country  born. 

There  are  merry  marriage  bells, 
There  's  the  noble  heart  that  swells 
When  first  young  nature  tells 
Of  great  manly  hopes. 


THE  POT  OF  GOLD.  45 

And  underneath,  alas ! 
A  tiny  wreath  we  pass, 
That  once  withered  on  the  grass 
Of  Greenwood's  slopes. 

So,  Madam  Millionnaire, 
Your  tree,  I  know,  is  fair, 
But  it  can  not  quite  compare 

With  this  I  see  : 

For  heaven  has  blessed  the  shoots, 
And  fancy  riped  the  fruits, 
And  my  heart  is  round  the  roots 

Of  our  Christmas-tree. 


THE   POT   OF   GOLD. 

THE  sun  flung  wide  its  golden  arms 
Above  the  dripping  woods  of  Maine, 

And  wove  across  the  misty  sky 
The  seven-dyed  ribbon  of  the  rain. 

An  old  wife  at  the  cottage  door 

Sat  with  her  grandson  by  her  knee, " 

And  watched  the  rainbow  belt  the  clouds 
And  span  the  world  from  sea  to  sea. 

Then,  in  that  quiet  evening  hour, 

The  wondering  boy  a  tale  she  told,  — 

How  he  who  sought  the  rainbow's  foot 
Would  find  beneath  a  pot  of  gold. 


46  THE  POT  OF  GOLD. 

The  eager  boy  drank  in  the  tale,  — 
His  eyes  were  filled  with  feverish  fire ; 

And  in  his  fluttering  heart  there  leaped 
A  wild,  impulsive,  vague  desire. 

And  as  the  gorgeous  sun  went  down, 

And  from  the  skies  the  mists  were  rolled, 

He  stole  with  hurrying  step  away 
To  seek  the  wondrous  pot  of  gold. 

Through  lonesome  woods  with  whispering  leaves, 
That  sung  an  endless  forest  hymn, 

Where  shadowy  cat-birds  wailed  unseen, 
And  squirrels  leaped  from  limb  to  limb,  — 

By  rivers  thundering  to  the  sea, 

By  ragged  hill  and  gloomy  glen, 
Through  swamps  where  slept  the  sluggish  air, 

And  by  the  pleasant  homes  of  men,  — 

The  strange  boy  wandered  night  and  day, 
His  eyes  still  filled  with  quenchless  fire ; 

While  still  within  his  heart  there  grew 
That  wild,  impulsive,  vague  desire. 

Men  marvelled  as  he  passed  them  by 
With  weary  step  and  lagging  pace  ; 

And  women,  as  they  saw  him,  sighed 
In  pity  for  his  childlike  face. 

And  many  asked  why  thus  he  went 

O'er  hill  and  flood,  through  heat  and  cold ; 

While  he  the  steadfast  answer  made, 
"  I  go  to  seek  the  pot  of  gold." 


THE  POT  OF  GOLD.  47 

And  then  they  smiled,  and  told  the  boy 
That  many  a  youth  that  quest  had  tried, 

And  some  had  fainted  by  the  way, 

And  all  had  failed,  and  most  had  died. 

For  never  had  the  mystic  goal 

By  any  human  foot  been  trod ; 
The  secret  of  the  rainbow's  base 

Was  known  but  to  its  builder  —  God. 

He  heard,  but  heeded  not :  his  eyes 

Were  fixed  upon  the  horizon's  brim. 
What  mattered  to  him  others'  fate,  — 

'T  was  not  the  fate  in  store  for  him. 

And  still  the  rainbow  came  and  went, 

And  scarf-like  hung  about  the  sun ; 
And  still  the  seeker's  restless  soul 

Sang  of  the  treasure  to  be  won. 

So  went  the  time  —  till  one  dark  day, 

When  flesh  and  blood  could  bear  no  more, 

Haggard  and  pale  he  fainting  fell 

Close  by  the  well-known  cottage  door. 

With  quivering  lips  he  told  his  tale ; 

The  pitying  tears  above  him  fell ; 
Once  more  around  his  couch  he  heard 

The  voices  that  he  loved  so  well. 

And  soon  a  modest,  mild-eyed  man, 

With  quiet  tones,  stood  at  his  side, 
Telling  a  sweet,  entrancing  tale 

Of  One  who  suffered  and  who  died ;  — 


48  MINOT'S  LEDGE. 

And  talked  about  a  treasure,  too, 

Through  pain  and  suffering  to  be  won, 

That  lay  beyond  the  rainbow  arch,  — 
Ay,  and  beyond  the  parent  sun. 

As  the  boy  heard  the  simple  words, 
From  out  his  eyes  the  fierce  fire  fled, 

And  straight  an  unseen  presence  wove 
A  calmer  splendor  round  his  head. 

And  so  his  young  life  ebbed  away ; 

His  heart  was  still,  his  limbs  were  cold ; 
But  by  the  smile  upon  his  face 

They  knew  he  'd  found  the  pot  of  gold  ! 


MINOT'S   LEDGE. 

LIKE  spectral  hounds  across  the  sky 

The  white  clouds  scud  before  the  storm, 
And  naked  in  the  howling  night 

The  red-eyed  lighthouse  lifts  its  form. 
The  waves  with  slippery  fingers  clutch 

The  massive  tower,  and  climb  and  fall, 
And,  muttering,  growl  with  baffled  rage 

Their  curses  on  the  sturdy  wall. 

Up  in  the  lonely  tower  he  sits, 

The  keeper  of  the  crimson  light,  — 

Silent  and  awe-struck  does  he  hear 
The  imprecations  of  the  night. 


MINOT'S  LEDGE.  49 

The  white  spray  beats  against  the  panes, 
Like  some  wet  ghost  that  down  the  air 

Is  hunted  by  a  troop  of  fiends, 
And  seeks  a  shelter  anywhere. 


He  prays  aloud  —  the  lonely  man  — 

For  every  soul  that  night  at  sea, 
But  more  than  all  for  that  brave  boy 

Who  used  to  gayly  climb  his  knee,  — 
Young  Charley,  with  the  chestnut  hair 

And  hazel  eyes  and  laughing  lip  : 
"  May  Heaven  look  down,"  the  old  man  cries, 

"  Upon  my  son,  and  on  his  ship  ! " 

While  thus  with  pious  heart  he  prays, 

Far  in  the  distance  sounds  a  boom  : 
He  pauses,  and  again  there  rings 

That  sullen  thunder  through  the  room. 
A  ship  upon  the  shoal  to-night ! 

She  cannot  hold  for  one  half-hour ! 
But  clear  the  ropes  and  grappl ing-hooks, 

And  trust  in  the  Almighty  Power ! 


On  the  drenched  gallery  he  stands, 

Striving  to  pierce  the  solid  night ; 
Across  the  sea  the  red  eye  throws 

A  steady  wake  of  crimson  light, 
And  where  it  falls  upon  the  waves 

He  sees  a  human  head  float  by, 
With  long,  drenched  curls  of  chestnut  hair, 

And  wild  but  fearless  hazel  eye. 
4 


50  THE  LEGEND  OF  EASTER  EGGS. 

Out  with  the  hooks  !     One  mighty  fling ! 

Adown  the  wind  the  long  rope  curls. 
0,  will  it  catch  1     Ah,  dread  suspense  ! 

While  the  wild  ocean  wilder  whirls. 
A  steady  pull  —  it  tautens  now  ! 

0,  his  old  heart  will  burst  with  joy 
As  on  the  slippery  rocks  he  drags 

The  breathing  body  of  his  boy. 

Still  sweep  the  spectres  through  the  sky, 

Still  scud  the  clouds  before  the  storm, 
Still  naked  in  the  howling  night 

The  red-eyed  lighthouse  lifts  its  form. 
Without,  the  world  is  wild  with  rage, 

Unkennelled  demons  are  abroad, 
But  with  the  father  and  the  son, 

Within,  there  is  the  peace  of  God. 


THE   LEGEND   OF  EASTER  EGGS. 

TRINITY  bells  with  their  hollow  lungs, 

And  their  vibrant  lips  and  their  brazen  tongues, 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  city  pour 

Their  Easter  music  with  joyous  roar, 

Till  the  soaring  notes  to  the  sun  are  rolled 

As  he  swings  along  in  his  path  of  gold. 

"  Dearest  papa,"  says  my  boy  to  me, 

As  he  merrily  climbs  on  his  mother's  knee, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  EASTER  EGGS.  51 

"  Why  are  these  eggs  that  you  see  me  hold 
Colored  so  fiiiely  with  blue  and  gold  1 
And  what  is  the  wonderful  bird  that  lays 
Such  beautiful  eggs  upon  Easter  days  1 " 

Tenderly  shine  the  April  skies, 

Like  laughter  and  tears  in  my  child's  blue  eyes, 

And  every  face  in  the  street  is  gay,  — 

Why  cloud  this  youngster's  by  saying  nay  ] 

So  I  cudgel  my  brains  for  the  tale  he  begs, 

And  tell  him  this  story  of  Easter  eggs  :  — 

You  have  heard,  my  boy,  of  the  Man  who  died, 

Crowned  with  keen  thorns  and  crucified ; 

And  how  Joseph  the  wealthy  —  whom  God  reward  !  — 

Cared  for  the  corse  of  his  martyred  Lord, 

And  piously  tombed  it  within  the  rock, 

And  closed  the  gate  with  a  mighty  block. 

Now  close  by  the  tomb  a  fair  tree  grew, 
With  pendulous  leaves,  and  blossoms  of  blue ; 
And  deep  in  the  green  tree's  shadowy  breast 
A  beautiful  singing  bird  sat  on  her  nest, 
Which  was  bordered  with  mosses  like  malachite, 
And  held  four  eggs  of  an  ivory  white. 

Now  when  the  bird  from  her  dim  recess 
Beheld  the  Lord  in  his  burial  dress, 
And  looked  on  the  heavenly  face  so  pale, 
And  the  dear  hands  pierced  with  the  cruel  nail, 
Her  heart  nigh  broke  with  a  sudden  pang, 
And  out  of  the  depths  of  her  sorrow  she  sang. 

All  night  long  till  the  moon  was  up 

She  sat  and  sang  in  her  moss-wreathed  cup, 


52  THE  LEGEND  OF  EASTER  EGGS. 

A  song  of  sorrow  as  wild  and  shrill 

As  the  homeless  wind  when  it  roams  the  hill, 

So  full  of  tears,  so  loud  and  long, 

That  the  grief  of  the  world  seemed  turned  to  song. 

But  soon  there  came  through  the  weeping  night 

A  glittering  angel  clothed  in  white ; 

And  he  rolled  the  stone  from  the  tomb  away, 

Where  the  Lord  of  the  earth  and  the  heavens  lay ; 

And  Christ  arose  in  the  cavern's  gloom, 

And  in  living  lustre  came  from  the  tomb. 

Now  the  bird  that  sat  in  the  heart  of  the  tree 
Beheld  this  celestial  mystery, 
And  its  heart  was  filled  with  a  sweet  delight, 
And  it  poured  a  song  on  the  throbbing  night ; 
Notes  climbing  notes,  till  higher,  higher, 
They  shot  to  heaven  like  spears  of  fire. 

When  the  glittering,  white-robed  angel  heard 

The  sorrowing  song  of  the  grieving  bird, 

And,  after,  the  jubilant  psean  of  mirth 

That  hailed  Christ  risen  again  on  earth, 

He  said,  "  Sweet  bird,  be  forever  blest, 

Thyself,  thy  eggs,  and  thy  moss- wreathed  nest !  " 

And  ever,  my  child,  since  that  blessed  night, 
When  death  bowed  down  to  the  Lord  of  light, 
The  eggs  of  that  sweet  bird  change  their  hue, 
And  burn  with  red  and  gold  and  blue, 
Reminding  mankind  in  their  simple  way 
Of  the  holy  marvel  of  Easter  day. 


DOWN  IN  THE  GLEN  AT  IDLEWILD.  53 


DOWN  IN  THE  GLEN  AT  IDLEWILD. 

THE  red  moon,  like  a  golden  grape, 

Hangs  slowly  ripening  in  the  sky, 
And  o'er  the  helmets  of  the  hills 

Like  plumes  the  summer  lightnings  fly. 
The  solemn  pine-trees  stoop  above 

The  brook,  that,  like  a  sleeping  child, 
Lies  babbling  of  its  simple  dreams 

Down  in  the  glen  at  Idlewild. 

The  red  mill  in  the  distance  sleeps,  — 

The  old  mill  that,  when  winter  comes, 
Wakes  to  a  wild,  spasmodic  life, 

And  through  the  rocky  channel  hums. 
And  starry-flowered  water-plants, 

With  myriad  eyes  of  moistened  light, 
Peep  coyly  from  their  sheltered  nooks,  — 

The  shy  companions  of  the  night. 

But  brighter  than  the  starry  flowers 

There  shine  a  maiden's  lustrous  eyes, 
And  yellower  shines  her  yellow  hair 

Than  the  full  moon  that  floods  the  skies, 
As  where  the  waters  kiss  the  cliff 

She  waits  for  him,  the  pearl  of  men, 
And  idly  plucks  the  ivy  leaves, 

And  listens,  and  then  waits  again. 

She  waits  to  hear  the  well-known  call, 

The  echoes  of  the  agile  foot, 
The  bursting  of  the  lacing  boughs, 

The  crackling  of  the  fragile  root ; 


54  WANTED  —  SAINT  PATRICK. 

But  ah  !  the  path  is  steep  and  dark, 
The  jagged  rocks  lie  far  below ; 

And  heaven  must  help  the  wight  who  slips, 
Up  where  those  treacherous  mosses  grow. 

At  last  he  comes  !  she  hears  his  step  ! 

But  ah  !  what  means  that  fearful  crash  1 
Down  the  steep  cliff  a  dark  shape  falls,  — 

From  rock  to  rock  she  sees  it  dash. 
Was  it  for  this  you  waited  long, 

0  loving  heart !  0  hapless  child  ! 
Dead  at  her  feet  her  lover  lies, 

Down  in  the  glen  at  Idlewild  ! 


WANTED  — SAINT   PATRICK. 


WHEN  Irish  hills  were  fair  and  green, 

And  Irish  fields  were  white  with  daisies, 
And  harvests,  golden  and  serene, 

Slept  in  the  lazy  summer  hazes ; 
When  bards  went  singing  through  the  land 

Their  grand  old  songs  of  knightly  story, 
And  hearts  were  found  in  every  hand, 

And  all  was  peace,  and  love,  and  glory ;  — 
'T  was  in  those  happy,  happy  days 

When  every  peasant  lived  in  clover, 
And  in  the  pleasant  woodland  ways 

One  never  met  the  begging  rover ; 


WANTED  —  SAINT  PATRICK.  55 

When  all  was  honest,  large,  and  true, 
And  naught  was  hollow  or  theatric ,  — 

'T  was  in  those  days  of  golden  hue 

That  Erin  knew  the  great  Saint  Patrick. 


ii. 

He  came  among  the  rustics  rude 

With  shining  robes  and  splendid  crosier, 
And  swayed  the  listening  multitude 

As  breezes  sway  the  beds  of  osier. 
He  preached  the  love  of  man  for  man, 

And  moved  the  unlettered  Celt  with  wonder, 
Till  through  the  simple  crowd  there  ran 

A  murmur  like  repeated  thunder. 
He  preached  the  grand  Incarnate  Word 

By  rock  and  ruin,  hill  and  hollow,. 
Till  warring  princes  dropped  the  sword 

And  left  the  fields  of  blood  to  follow. 
For  never  yet  did  bardic  song, 

Though  graced  with  harp  and  poet's  diction, 
With  such  strange  charm  enchain  the  throng 

As  that  sad  tale  of  crucifixion. 


in. 

Though  fair  the  isle  and  brave  the  men, 

Yet  still  a  blight  the  land  infested ; 
Green  vipers  darted  through  each  glen, 

And  snakes  within  the  woodlands  nested ; 
And  'mid  the  banks  where  violets  blew, 

And  on  the  slopes  where  bloomed  the  primrose, 
Lurked  spotted  toads  of  loathsome  hue, 

And  coiling,  poisonous  serpents  grim  rose. 


56  WANTED  —  ST.   PATRICK. 

Saint  Patrick  said  :  "  The  reptile  race 

Are  types  of  human  degradation ; 
From  other  ills  I  've  cleansed  the  place, 

And  now  of  these  I  '11  rid  the  nation." 
He  waved  his  crosier  o'er  his  head, 

And  lo  I  each  venomed  thing  took  motion, 
And  toads  and  snakes  and  vipers  fled 

In  terror  to  the  circling  ocean. 

IV. 

Why  is  Saint  Patrick  dead  ?  or  why 

Does  he  not  seek  this  soil  to  aid  us  1 
To  wave  his  mystic  crook  on  high, 

And  rout  the  vermin  that  degrade  us  1 
Our  land  is  fertile,  broad,  and  fair, 

And  should  be  fairer  yet  and  broader  ; 
But  noxious  reptiles  taint  the  air, 

And  poison  peace,  and  law,  and  order. 
For  murder  stalks  along  each  street, 

And  theft  goes  lurking  through  our  alleys,  — 
What  reptiles  worse  does  traveller  meet 

On  India's  hills,  in  Java's  valleys  1 
And  when  we  see  this  gambling  host, 

That  Amongst  us  practise  this  and  that  trick, 
One  knows  not  which  would  serve  us  most, 

The  Goddess  Justice  or  Saint  Patrick  1 


THE  PRIZE-FIGHT.  57 


THE   PRIZE-FIGHT. 

i. 

HAMMER  and  tongs  !     What  have  we  here  1 
Let  us  approach,  but  not  too  near. 
Two  men  standing  breast  to  breast, 
Head  erect  and  arching  chest ; 
Shoulders  square  and  hands  hard  clenched, 
And  both  their  faces  a  trifle  blenched. 
Their  lips  are  set  in  a  smile  so  grim, 
And  sturdily  set  each  muscular  limb. 
Round  them  circles  a  ring  of  rope, 
Over  them  hangs  the  heavens'  blue  cope. 
Why  do  they  glare  at  each  other  so  ] 
What !  you  really  then  don't  know] 
This  is  a  prize-fight,  gentle  sir ! 
This  is  what  makes  the  papers  stir. 
Talk  of  your  ocean  telegraph  ! 
'T  is  n't  so  great  an  event  by  half, 
As  when  two  young  men  lusty  and  tall, 

With  nothing  between  them  of  hate  or  wrongs, 
Come  together  to  batter  and  maul, 
Come  to  fight  till  one  shall  fall,  — 
Hammer  and  tongs ! 

ii. 

Round  about  is  a  bestial  crowd, 
Heavily-jawed  and  beetle-browed ; 
Concave  faces,  trampled  in 
As  if  with  the  iron  hoof  of  sin ; 
Blasphemies  dripping  from  off  their  lips, 
Pistols  bulging  behind  their  hips ; 


58  THE  PRIZE-FIGHT. 

Hands  accustomed  to  deal  the  cards, 

Or  strike  with  the  cowardly  knuckle-guards. 

Who  are  these  ruffianly  fellows,  you  say, 

That  taint  the  breath  of  this  autumn  day  1 

These  are  "  the  Fancy,"  gentle  sir. 

The  Fancy  ?     What  are  they  to  her  ? 

0,  't  is  their  fancy  to  look  at  a  fight, 

To  see  men  struggle,  and  gouge,  and  bite. 

Bloody  noses  and  bunged-up  eyes,  — 

These  are  the  things  the  Fancy  prize. 

And  so  they  get  men,  lusty  and  tall, 

With  nothing  between  them  of  hate  or  wrongs, 
To  come  together  to  batter  and  maul, 
To  come  and  fight  till  one  shall  fall,  — 
Hammer  and  tongs ! 

in. 

Grandly  the  autumn  forests  shine, 
Red  as  the  gold  in  an  Indian  mine  ! 
A  dreamy  mist,  a  vapory  smoke, 
Hangs  round  the  patches  of  evergreen  oak. 
Over  the  broad  lake  shines  the  sun,  — 
The  lake  that  Perry  battled  upon,  — 
Striking  the  upland  fields  of  maize 
That  glow  through  the  soft  October  haze. 
Nature  is  tracing  with  languid  hand 
Lessons  of  peace  over  lake  and  land. 
Ay  !  yet  this  is  the  tranquil  spot 
Chosen  by  bully,  assassin,  and  sot 
To  pit  two  young  men,  lusty  and  tall, 

With  nothing  between  them  of  hate  or  wrongs, 
One  with  the  other,  to  batter  and  maul, 
To  tussle  and  fight  till  one  shall  fall,  — 
Hammer  and  tongs ! 


THE  PRIZE-FIGHT.  59 

IV. 

Their  faces  are  rich  with  a  healthy  hue, 
Their  eyes  are  clear,  and  bright,  and  blue ; 
Every  muscle  is  clean  and  fine, 
And  their  blood  is  pure  as  the  purest  wine. 
It  is  a  pleasure  their  limbs  to  scan,  — 
Splendid  types  of  the  animal  man, 
Splendid  types  of  that  human  grace, 
The  noblest  that  God  has  willed  to  trace, 
Brought  to  this  by  science  and  art ; 
Trained,  and  nourished,  and  kept  apart ; 
Cunningly  fed  on  the  wholesomest  food, 
Carefully  watched  in  every  mood ; 
Brought  to  this  state,  so  noble  and  proud, 
To  savagely  tussle  before  a  crowd,  — 
To.  dim  the  light  of  the  eyes  so  clear, 
To  mash  the  face  to  a  bloody  smear, 
To  maim,  deface,  and  kill,  if  they  can, 
The  glory  of  all  creation,  —  Man  ! 
This  the  task  of  those,  lusty  and  tall, 

With  nothing  between  them  of  hate  or  wrongs,  — 
To  bruise  and  wrestle,  and  batter  and  maul, 
And  fight  till  one  or  the  other  shall  fall,  — 
Hammer  and  tongs ! 

v. 

With  feet  firm  planted  upon  the  sand, 
Face  to  face  at  "  the  scratch  "  they  stand. 
Feinting  first  —  a  blow  —  a  guard ! 
Then  some  hitting,  heavy  and  hard. 
The  round  fist  falls  with  a  horrible  thud ; 
Wherever  it  falls  comes  a  spout  of  blood  ! 


60  THE  PRIZE-FIGHT. 

Blow  after  blow,  fall  after  fall, 

For  twenty  minutes  they  tussle  and  maul. 

The  lips  of  the  one  are  a  gory  gash, 

The  others  are  knocked  to  eternal  smash  ! 

The  bold,  bright  eyes  are  bloody  and  dim, 

And,  staggering,  shivers  each  stalwart  limb. 

Faces  glowing  with  stupid  wrath, 

Hard  breaths  breathed  through  a  bloody  froth  j 

Blind  and  faint,  they  rain  their  blows 

On  cheeks  like  jelly  and  shapeless  nose ; 

While  the  concave  faces  around  the  rope 

Darken  with  panic  or  light  with  hope, 

Till  one  fierce  brute,  with  a  terrible  blow, 

Lays  the  other  poor  animal  low. 

Are  these  the  forms  so  noble  and  proud, 

That,  kinglike,  towered  above  the  crowd  1 

Where  are  the  faces  so  healthy  and  fresh1? 

There  !  those  illegible  masses  of  flesh  ! 

Thus  we  see  men  lusty  and  tall, 

Who,  with  nothing  between  them  of  hate  or  wrongs, 
Will  bruise  and  batter,  and  tussle  and  maul, 
And  fight  till  one  or  the  other  shall  fall,  — 
Hammer  and  tongs ! 

VI. 

Trainers,  backers,  and  betters  all,  — 
Who  teach  young  men  to  tussle  and  maul, 
And  spend  their  muscle,  and  blood,  and  life, 
Given  for  good,  in  a  loathsome  strife,  — 
I  know  what  the  Devil  will  do  for  you, 
You  pistolling,  bullying,  cowardly  crew  ! 
He  '11  light  up  his  furnaces  red  and  blue, 
And  treat  you  all  to  a  roast  and  stew ; 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LOCOMOTIVE.  61 

0,  he  '11  do  you  up,  and  he  '11  do  you  brown, 

On  pitchforks  cleft  into  mighty  prongs, 
While  chuckling  fiends  your  agonies  crown 
By  stirring  you  up  and  keeping  you  down 
With  hammer  and  tongs ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LOCOMOTIVE. 


FAST  through  the  sombre  pine-forests  I  flash, 
Pounding  the  track  with  monotonous  crash, 
Lighting  the  gloom  with  a  comet-like  glare, 
Thrilling  with  noises  unearthly  the  air, 
Startling  the  turkey  and  coon  from  then*  sleep,  — 
Mighty  with  motion,  resistless  I  sweep. 

Bong !     Bong ! 

Smashing  along ! 
I  lighten  my  road  with  a  bit  of  a  song ! 

ii. 

0, 1  can  sing,  though  of  iron  my  throat, 
And  discordant  my  wild,  supernatural  note ! 
And  the  song  that  I  sing  is  of  danger  and  dread, 
The  midnight  collision,  the  quivering  dead ; 
The  power  imperial  that  nothing  can  stay ; 
The  myriad  of  perils  that  lurk  by  the  way. 

Bong !     Bong ! 

Crashing  along ! 
I  shorten  the  road  with  a  bit  of  a  song ! 


62  THE  SONG  OF  THE  LOCOMOTIVE. 

III. 

Ho  there,  old  stoker  !  who  think  you  control 
This  iron-ribbed  animal,  body  and  soul ; 
Why,  one  pant  of  my  lungs  and  one  heave  of  my  flank 
Would  flash  you  down  yonder  precipitous  bank ; 
So  don't  be  too  proud  of  your  muscle  and  bones, 
For  sixty  feet  down  there  are  horrible  stones  ! 

Ding !     Dong ! 

Bumping  along  ! 
Don't  think  that  I  'm  singing  your  funeral  song  ! 

IV. 

For  I  know  that  behind  me  I  carry  a  treasure, 
And  it  thrills  through  my  nerves  with  a  singular  pleasure. 
There  the  bride  by  her  newly-wed  husband  reposes, 
And  the  bronze  of  his  cheek  is  faint  flushed  by  her  roses ; 
And  the  pale  mother  sits  with  her  babe  at  her  bosom, 
Like  a  lily  that  just  has  unfolded  a  blossom. 

Bong !     Bong ! 

Gently  along ! 
Soft  as  the  winds  of  the  summer  my  song ! 

v. 

But  away  with  all  sentiment !     I  am  a  steed 

That  lives  on  the  wild  inspiration  of  speed ! 

I  feed  upon  distance,  I  grapple  with  space ; 

My  soul  is  a  furnace,  —  my  life  is  a  race ; 

The  long  prairie  shakes  with  my  thunderous  tread, 

And  my  dissonance  curdles  the  air  overhead ! 

Bong !     Bong ! 

Madly  along ! 
The  mountains  I  split  with  reverberant  song ! 


IRISH  CASTLES.  63 

VI. 

Yet  sometimes  I  think,  when  I  'm  housed  for  the  night, 
I  may  live  to  behold  the  decay  of  my  might ; 
For  not  far  from  my  stable  I  often  behold 
A  decrepit  old  Loco,  once  gallant  and  bold ; 
Now  his  piston  is  gouty,  his  boiler  is  "  bust," 
And  the  gold  of  his  harness  is  eaten  with  rust. 

Ding !     Dong ! 

Rotting  so  long, 
With  never  a  mouthful  of  coals,  or  a  song! 

VII. 

0,  better  to  die  in  the  hour  of  my  pride  ! 

Far  better  to  perish  in  tunnel  or  tide  ! 

Ha  !  what  red  light  is  this  that 's  advancing  amain  ? 

JT  is  my  rival  returning,  —  the  haughty  down  train ! 

Clear  the  track  !  I  'm  upon  you !    Hurrah  !  what  a  smash ! 

There,  old  fellow,  I  think  I  have  settled  your  hash ! 

Bong !     Bong  ! 

Slowly  along ! 
I  'm  rather  too  crippled  to  finish  my  song  1 


IRISH  CASTLES. 

'  SWEET  Norah,  come  here  and  look  into  the  fire ; 

Maybe  in  its  embers  good  luck  we  might  see ; 
But  don't  come  too  near,  or  your  glances  so  shining 

Will  put  it  clean  out,  like  the  sunbeams,  machree ! 


64  IKISH  CASTLES. 

1  Just  look  'twixt  the  sods,  where   so  brightly  they  're 

burning  : 

There  's  a  sweet  little  valley,  with  river  and  trees, 
And  a  house  on  the  bank  quite  as  big  as  the  squire's,  — 
Who  knows  but  some  day  we  '11  have  something  like 
these  1 

1  And  now  there 's  a  coach  and  four  galloping  horses, 
A  coachman  to  drive,  and  a  footman  behind ; 

That  betokens  some  day  we  will  keep  a  fine  carriage, 
And  dash  through  the  streets  with  the  speed  of  the 
wind/ 

As  Dermot  was  speaking,  the  rain  down  the  chimney 
Soon  quenched  the  turf-fire  on  the  hollowed  hearth- 
stone, 

While  mansion  and  carriage  in  smoke-circles  vanished, 
And  left  the  poor  dreamers  dejected  and  lone. 

Then  Norah  to  Dermot  these  words  softly  whispered  : 
'  'T  is  better  to  strive  than  to  vainly  desire ; 

And  our  little  hut  by  the  roadside  is  better 

Than  palace,  and  servants,  and  coach  —  in  the  fire  ! ' 

'T  is  years  since  poor  Dermot  his  fortune  was  dreaming, 
Since  Norah's  sweet  counsel  effected  his  cure  : 

For  ever  since  then  hath  he  toiled  night  and  morning, 
And  now  his  snug  mansion  looks  down  on  the  Suir. 


LOCH  INK  65 


LOCH   INK 

I  KNOW  a  lake  where  the  cool  waves  break, 

And  softly  fall  on  the  silver  sand ; 
And  no  steps  intrude  on  that  solitude, 

And  no  voice  save  mine  disturbs  the  strand  : 

And  a  mountain  bold,  like  a  giant  of  old, 
Turned  to  stone  by  some  magic  spell, 

Uprears  in  might  his  misty  height, 
And  his  craggy  sides  are  wooded  welL 

In  the  midst  doth  smile  a  little  isle, 

And  its  verdure  shames  the  emerald's  green : 

On  its  grassy  side,  in  ruined  pride, 
A  castle  of  old  is  darkling  seen. 

On  its  lofty  crest  the  wild  crane's  nest ; 

In  its  halls  the  sheep  good  shelter  find ; 
And  the  ivy  shades  where  a  hundred  blades 

Were  hung,  when  the  owners  in  sleep  reclined. 

That  chief  of  old,  could  he  now  behold 

His  lordly  tower  a  shepherd's  pen, 
His  corpse,  long  dead,  from  its  narrow  bed 

Would  rise,  with  anger  and  shame,  again. 

'T  is  sweet  to  gaze  when  the  sun's  bright  rays 
Are  cooling  themselves  in  the  trembling  wave ; 

But 't  is  sweeter  far  when  the  evening  star 
Shines  like  a  smile  at  friendship's  grave. 
5 


66  AN  APRIL  DAY. 

There  the  hollow  shells  through  their  wreathed  cells 

Make  music  on  the  silent  shore, 
As  the  summer  breeze,  through  the  distant  trees, 

Murmurs  in  fragrant  breathings  o'er. 

And  the  sea-weed  shines  like  the  hidden  mines, 

Or  the  fairy  cities  beneath  the  sea ; 
And  the  wave-washed  stones  are  bright  as  the  thrones 

Of  the  ancient  kings  of  Araby. ' 

If  it  were  my  lot  in  that  fairy  spot 

To  live  forever  and  dream  't  were  mine, 

Courts  might  woo  and  kings  pursue 
Ere  I  would  leave  thee,  loved  Loch  Ine. 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 

THIS  was  the  day  —  a  year  ago  — 

When  first  I  saw  her,  sauntering  slow 

Over  the  meadow  and  down  the  lane, 

Where  the  privet  was  shining  with  recent  rain. 

The  world  had  flung  its  torpor  away, 
And  breathed  the  pure  air  of  the  April  day ; 
The  sap  was  pulsing  through  maple-trees, 
And  the  rivers  were  rushing  to  meet  the  seas. 

All  the  secret  thrills  that  through  nature  run, 
Silent  and  swift  as  the  threads  of  the  sun, 
Shook  with  their  tremors  each  growing  thing, 
And  worked  with  the  mystic  charms  of  spring. 


AN  APRIL  DAY.  67 

Like  ghosts  at  the  resurrection  day, 
The  snowdrops  arose  from  the  torpid  clay, 
And  the  violets  opened  their  purple  eyes, 
And  smiled  in  the  face  of  the  tender  skies. 

The  larch-trees  were  covered  with  crimson  buds 
Till  their  branches  seemed  streaming  with  sanguine  floods  ; 
And  the  ivy  looked  faded,  and  old,  and  sere,  - 

'Mid  the  greenness  that  sprouted  everywhere. 

But  though  the  landscape  was  passing  bright 
Her  coming  lent  it  a  rarer  light ; 
A  tenderer  verdure  was  on  the  grass, 
And  flowers  grew  brighter  to  see  her  pass. 

Her  form  and  face,  as  she  moved  along, 
Seemed  like  a  sweet,  incarnate  song,  — 
A  living  hymn  that  the  earth,  in  glee, 
Sung  to  heaven,  the  sun,  and  me. 

So  seemed  she  to  me  a  year  ago, 
When  first  I  saw  her,  sauntering  slow 
Over  the  meadow  and  down  the  lane, 
Where  the  privet  shone  with  the  April  rain. 

The  year  is  past  —  entombed  —  forgot : 
I  stand  to-day  on  the  selfsame  spot : 
Still  do  the  pallid  snowdrops  rise, 
And  the  violets  open  their  purple  eyes : 

And  a  coming  greenness  is  in  the  lane, 
And  the  privet  glistens  with  recent  rain ; 
The  larches  sprout,  and  the  blue-birds  sing, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  spring ! 


68  JOHNNY. 

But  the  joy  of  the  world  is  gone  from  me ; 
I  see  no  beauty  in  field  or  tree ; 
The  flower  that  bloomed  in  my  path  is  crushed ; 
The  music  that  solaced  my  life  is  hushed. 

I  see  her  tombstone  from  where  I  stand,  — 
Stark  and  stiff,  like  a  ghastly  hand 
Pointing  to  heaven,  as  if  to  say, 
There  we  shall  meet,  some  April  day ! 


JOHNNY. 

I  CARE  not  how  you  have  been  blest  — 
No  maiden  ever  yet  possessed 

A  lover  like  my  lover. 
His  eyes  were  of  a  dancing  blue ; 
His  chestnut  hair  was  just  the  hue 

That  flecks  the  golden  plover. 

'T  was  on  a  dreamy  night  in  June, 
"When  earth  and  heaven  throbbed  in  tune, 

That  first  he  told  his  passion. 
Together  we  were  sauntering  down 
The  lonely  road  that  led  to  town, 

In  most  romantic  fashion. 

He  took  my  hand  in  his,  and  placed 
His  other  arm  about  my  waist ; 

His  heart  went  clicky  clacket. 
And  'midst  an  incoherent  flow 
Of  protestations  deep  and  low, 

He  pressed  me  to  —  his  jacket. 


JOHNNY.  69 

I  eight  and  twenty  years  had  seen, 
And  Johnny  was  not  quite  thirteen  ; 

Yet  justice  I  must  render : 
'Mid  all  the  swains  I  've  had  since  then  — 
And  some  of  them  were  charming  men  — 

I  ne'er  had  one  more  tender. 

He  swore  he  loved  me  more  than  life ; 
He  'd  die  if  I  were  not  his  wife ; 

I  was  his  only  jewel ; 
He  dreamed  of  me  by  day  and  night ; 
I  was  his  sun,  his  star,  his  light,  — 

In  fact,  all  kinds  of  fuel. 

I  dared  not  let  him  see  the  smile 
That  glimmered  on  my  lips  the  while 

He  madly  was  entreating ; 
For  worlds  I  would  not  cause  to  smart 
The  honest,  manly  little  heart 

That  in  his  breast  was  beating. 

Then  he  —  ah !  cunning  little  Jack  — 
Rehearsed  a  speech  from  Telemaque  — 

A  fact  he  did  not  mention ; 
While  I,  with  half-averted  face, 
Kept  listening,  with  the  utmost  grace 

And  most  profound  attention. 

He  wished  to  fly  to  some  far  isle 
Where  summer  skies  forever  smile, 

And  fruits  are  in  profusion ; 
And  there,  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
We  'd  live  the  golden  age  again, 

In  exquisite  seclusion. 


70  JOHNNY. 

The  sun  of  love  our  days  should  gild, 
And  stalwart  he  would  straightway  build 

A  beautiful  pavilion ; 
And  we  would  live  on  deer  and  fish, 
With  grapes  as  much  as  we  could  wish, 

And  kisses  by  the  million. 

I  listened  gravely  to  his  plan  — 
The  loving,  noble  little  man  — 

So  earnest  and  so  funny ; 
Then  hinted  that  to  reach  this  haunt 
Of  wedded  bliss,  why,  we  might  want 

A  little  ready  money. 

The  blow  was  fatal :  Johnny's  face 
Grew  solemn  at  a  fearful  pace, 

And  silently  we  parted. 
I  went  my  way :  he  went  to  bed 
Revolving  finance  in  his  head, 

And  nearly  broken-hearted. 

I  need  not  say  we  did  not  fly 
To  that  eternal  summer  sky, 

So  far  across  the  water. 
I  hear  no  more  of  Telemaque,  — 
For  I,  in  short,  may  say  that  Jack 

Is  married  to  my  daughter. 


THE  SKATERS.  71 


THE  SKATERS. 

LIKE  clouds  they  scud  across  the  ice, 
His  hand  holds  hers  as  in  a  vice  ; 
The  moonlight  strikes  the  back-blown  hair 
Of  handsome  Madge  and  Rupert  Clare. 

The  ice  resounds  beneath  the  steel ; 
It  groans  to  feel  his  spurning  steel ; 
While  ever  with  the  following  wind 
A  shadowy  skater  flits  behind. 

t  Why  skate  we  thus  so  far  from  land  ] 

0  Rupert  Clare,  let  go  my  hand ! 

1  cannot  see  —  I  cannot  hear  — 
The  wind  about  us  moans  with  fear  !  * 

His  hand  is  stifier  than  a  vice, 
His  touch  is  colder  than  the  ice, 
His  face  is  paler  than  the  moon 
That  paves  with  light  the  lone  lagoon ! 

*  0  Rupert  Clare,  I  feel  —  I  trace 

A  something  awful  in  your  face  ! 

You  crush  my  hand  —  you  sweep  me  on  — 

Until  my  breath  and  sense  are  gone  ! ' 

His  grasp  is  stiffer  than  a  vice, 
His  touch  is  colder  than  the  ice ; 
She  only  hears  the  ringing  tune 
Of  skates  upon  the  lone  lagoon. 


72  THE  SKATERS. 

'  0  Rupert  Clare  !  sweet  Rupert  Clare ! 
For  heaven's  mercy  hear  my  prayer ! 
I  could  not  help  my  heart  you  know ! 
Poor  Willy  Gray,  —  he  loves  me  so  ! ' 

His  grip  is  stiffer  than  a  vice, 
His  lip  is  bluer  than  the  ice ; 
While  ever  thrills  the  ringing  tune 
Of  skates  along  the  lone  lagoon. 

*  0  Rupert  Clare  !  where  are  your  eyes  1 
The  rotten  ice  before  us  lies  ! 
You  dastard  !     Loose  your  hold,  I  say  !  — 
0  God  !     Where  are  you,  Willy  Gray  1 ' 

A  shriek  that  seems  to  split  the  sky,  — 
A  wilder  light  in  Rupert's  eye,  — 
She  cannot  —  cannot  loose  that  grip ; 
His  sinewy  arm  is  round  her  hip ! 

But  like  an  arrow  on  the  wind 

The  shadowy  skater  scuds  behind ; 

The  lithe  ice  rises  to  the  stroke 

Of  steel-shod  heels  that  seem  to  smoke. 

He  hurls  himself  upon  the  pair ; 
He  tears  his  bride  from  Rupert  Clare ; 
His  fainting  Madge,  whose  moist  eyes  say, 
Ah  !  here,  at  last,  is  Willy  Gray  ! 

The  lovers  stand  with  heart  to  heart,  — 
'  No  more,'  they  cry,  '  no  more  to  part ! ' 
But  still  along  the  lone  lagoon 
The  steel  skates  ring  a  ghostly  tune  ! 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  GIBBET.  73 

And  in  the  moonlight,  pale  and  cold, 
The  panting  lovers  still  behold 
The  self-appointed  sacrifice 
Skating  toward  the  rotten  ice  ! 


THE   DEMON   OF   THE   GIBBET. 

THERE  was  no  west,  there  was  no  east, 

No  star  abroad  for  eye  to  see ; 
And  Norman  spurred  his  jaded  beast 

Hard  by  the  terrible  gallows-tree. 

'  0  Norman,  haste  across  this  waste,  — 
For  something  seems  to  follow  me  ! ' 

1  Cheer  up,  dear  Maud,  for,  thanked  be  God, 
We  nigh  have  passed  the  gallows-tree  ! ' 

He  kissed  her  lip  :  then  —  spur  and  whip ! 

And  fast  they  fled  across  the  lea ! 
But  vain  the  heel  and  rowel  steel,  — 

For  something  leaped  from  the  gallows-tree  ! 

'  Give  me  your  cloak,  your  knightly  cloak, 
That  wrapped  you  oft  beyond  the  sea ; 

The  wind  is  bold,  my  bones  are  old, 
And  I  am  cold  on  the  gallows-tree.' 

'  0  holy  God !  0  dearest  Maud, 

Quick,  quick,  some  prayers,  — the  best  that  be  ! 
A  bony  hand  my  neck  has  spanned, 

And  tears  my  knightly  cloak  from  me  ! ' 


74  THE  WHARF  RAT. 

4  Give  me  your  wine,  —  the  red,  red  wine, 
That  in  the  flask  hangs  by  your  knee ! 

Ten  summers  burst  on  me  accurst, 
And  I  'm  athirst  on  the  gallows-tree.' 

i  0  Maud,  my  life !  my  loving  wife ! 

Have  you  no  prayer  to  set  us  free  ? 
My  belt  unclasps,  —  a  demon  grasps 

And  drags  my  wine-flask  from  my  knee  ! ' 

'  Give  me  your  bride,  your  bonnie  bride, 
That  left  her  nest  with  you  to  flee  ! 

0,  she  hath  flown  to  be  my  own, 
For  I  'm  alone  on  the  gallows-tree  ! ' 

*  Cling  closer,  Maud,  and  trust  in  God  ! 

Cling  close  !  —  Ah,  heaven,  she  slips  from  me  ! ' 
A  prayer,  a  groan,  and  he  alone 

Rode  on  that  night  from  the  gallows-tree. 


THE   WHARF   RAT. 

i. 

THE  wharf  is  silent  and  black,  and  motionless  lie  the  ships ; 

The  ebb-tide  sucks  at  the  piles  with  its  cold  and  slimy  lips; 

And  down  through  the  tortuous  lane  a  sailor  comes  sing- 
ing along, 

And  a  girl  in  the  Gallipagos  isles  is  the  burden  of  his 
song. 


THE   HAVELOCK.  75 

II. 

Behind  the  white  cotton  bales  a  figure  is  crouching  low ; 
It  listens  with  eager  ears,  as  the  straggling  footsteps  go. 
It  follows  the  singing  sailor,  stealing  upon  his  track, 
And  when  he  reaches  the  river-side,  the  wharf  rat 's  at 
his  back. 

in. 

A  man  is  missing  next  day,  and  a  paragraph  tells  the  fact ; 

But  the  way  he  went,  or  the  road  he  took,  will  never, 
never  be  tracked ! 

For  the  lips  of  the  tide  are  dumb,  and  it  keeps  such  se- 
crets well, 

And  the  fate  of  the  singing  sailor  boy  the  wharf  rat  alone 
can  tell. 


THE   HAVELOCK. 

ON  southern  uplands  I  was  born, 

Kissed  by  the  lips  of  the  golden  morn ; 

Strong,  and  tall,  and  straight  was  I, 

And  my  white  plumes  danced  as  the  wind  went  by, 

Till  the  hills  above  and  the  vales  below 

Seemed  drowned  in  a  mist  of  drifting  snow. 

But  by  and  by  my  plumes  were  stripped 
By  negroes  lusty  and  dusky-lipped, 
And  they  bore  me  off  to  a  darksome  mill, 
With  jaws  and  teeth  that  never  were  still ; 
And  there  I  was  mangled  and  whirled  about, 
Till  it  chewed  me  up  and  it  spat  me  out. 


76  THE  HAVELOCK, 


and  bound  with  canvas  and  rope, 
I  hung  on  the  edge  of  a  dizzy  slope,    • 
Till  I  saw  the  panting  steamer  glide 
Close  to  the  edge  of  the  terrible  slide,  ^ 
When  they  pushed  me  over  and  let  me  go, 
And  swift  as  a  bullet  I  plunged  below. 

So  down  the  river  they  bore  me  then, 

And  passed  me  over  to  trading  men, 

And  bartered  me  off,  and  shipped  me  to  sea, 

From  the  crowded  wharf  of  the  long  levee ; 

And  so  we  sailed  for  many  a  day, 

Till  the  mud  of  the  Mersey  around  us  lay. 

Through  dingy  factories  then  I  passed, 
Where  flickered  the  shuttle  flashing  fast ; 
And  British  fingers  all  wan  and  thin 
With  labor,  and  hunger,  and  drink,  and  sin, 
Twisted  my  threads,  in  the  fetid  gloom, 
And  wove  them  close  on  the  whirring  loom. 

So  back  to  my  country  I  came  again, 

Fit  for  the  uses  of  busy  men  ; 

And  the  time  went  by,  till  one  summer  day 

In  a  beautiful  maiden's  lap  I  lay, 

While  with  scissors,  and  thimble,  and  needle,  and  thread, 

She  fashioned  me  thus  for  a  soldier's  head. 

For  the  light  of  battle  was  in  the  sky, 

And  the  armed  thousands  were  hurrying  by, 

And  the  brawny  farmer  and  slender  clerk 

Were  side  by  side  in  the  holy  work ; 

For  a  wondrous  fire  through  the  people  ran,  — 

Through  maid,  and  woman,  and  child,  and  man. 


THE  HAVELOCK.  77 

Ah  !  't  was  a  tender  and  sorrowful  day 
When  the  soldier  lover  went  marching  away ; 
For  that  selfsame  morn  he  had  called  her  bride, 
As  they  stood  at  the  altar  side  by  side ; 
Then  with  one  long  kiss  and  a  hushed  good-by 
He  went  with  his  comrades  to  do  or  die ! 

To-day  I  am  on  the  selfsame  earth 

That  nourished  my  parents  and  gave  me  birth ; 

But  the  waving  snow  is  no  longer  there, 

And  muskets  flash  in  the  sunlit  air, 

And  the  hillside  shakes  with  the  heavy  tramp 

Of  the  hostile  armies  from  camp  to  camp. 

And  the  head  that  I  cover  is  thinking  now 
Of  the  fair  hands  that  placed  me  upon  his  brow, 
And  wonders  whether,  in  the  coming  fight 
That  will  redden  these  southern  slopes  to-night, 
I  shall  safely  ride  through  the  stormy  fray, 
Or  ownerless  lie  in  the  crimson  clay. 

And  northward  far,  at  the  selfsame  time 
That  he  dreaming  stands  in  this  sunny  clime, 
The  hands  that  made  me  are  raised  in  prayer, 
And  her  voice  ascends  through  the  silent  air ; 
And  if  pureness  and  goodness  have  power  to  charm, 
The  head  that  I  cover  is  safe  from  harm. 


78  THE  COUNTERSIGN. 


THE  COUNTERSIGN. 

ALAS  !  the  weary  hours  pass  slow, 

The  night  is  very  dark  and  still, 
And  in  the  marshes  far  below 

I  hear  the  bearded  whippoorwill. 
I  scarce  can  see  a  yard  ahead, 

My  ears  are  strained  to  catch  each  sound; 
I  hear  the  leaves  about  me  shed, 

And  the  springs  bubbling  through  the  ground. 

Along  the  beaten  path  I  pace, 

Where  white  rags  mark  my  sentry's  track ; 
In  formless  shrubs  I  seem  to  trace 

The  foeman's  form  with  bending  back. 
I  think  I  see  him  crouching  low, 

I  stop  and  list  —  I  stoop  and  peer  — 
Until  the  neighboring  hillocks  grow 

To  groups  of  soldiers  far  and  near. 

With  ready  piece  I  wait  and  watch, 

Until  my  eyes,  familiar  grown, 
Detect  each  harmless  earthen  notch, 

And  turn  guerillas  into  stone. 
And  then  amid  the  lonely  gloom, 

Beneath  the  weird  old  tulip-trees, 
My  silent  marches  I  resume, 

And  think  on  other  times  than  these. 

Sweet  visions  through  the  silent  night ! 
The  deep  bay-windows  fringed  with  vine, 


THE  COUNTERSIGN.  79 

The  room  within,  in  softened  light, 
The  tender,  milk-white  hand  in  mine; 

The  timid  pressure,  and  the  pause 

That  ofttimes  overcame  our  speech,  — 

That  time  when  by  mysterious  laws 
We  each  felt  all  in  all  to  each. 

And  then  that  bitter,  bitter  day, 

When  came  the  final  hour  to  part, 
When,  clad  in  soldier's  honest  gray, 

I  pressed  her  weeping  to  my  heart. 
Too  proud  of  me  to  bid  me  stay, 

Too  fond  of  me  to  let  me  go,  — 
I  had  to  tear  myself  away, 

And  left  her  stolid  in  her  woe. 

So  comes  the  dream  —  so  fleets  the  night  — 

When  distant  in  the  darksome  glen, 
Approaching  up  the  sombre  height, 

I  hear  the  solid  march  of  men  ; 
Till  over  stubble,  over  sward, 

And  fields  where  gleams  the  golden  sheaf, 
I  see  the  lantern  of  the  guard 

Advancing  with  the  night  relief. 

"  Halt !  who  goes  there  1 "  my  challenge  cry : 

It  rings  along  the  watchful  line. 
"  Relief ! "  I  hear  a  voice  reply. 

"  Advance,  and  give  the  countersign !  " 
With  bayonet  at  the  charge,  I  wait, 

The  corporal  gives  the  mystic  spell ; 
With  arms  at  port  I  charge  my  mate, 

And  onward  pass,  and  all  is  well. 


80  THE  ZOUAVES. 

But  in  the  tent  that  night  awake, 

I  think,  if  in  the  fray  I  fall, 
Can  I  the  mystic  answer  make 

When  the  angelic  sentries  call  1 
And  pray  that  heaven  may  so  ordain. 

That  when  I  near  the  camp  divine, 
Whate'er  my  travail  or  my  pain, 

I  yet  may  have  the  countersign. 

CAMP  CAMERON,  July,  1861. 


THE  ZOUAVES. 

To  bugle-note  and  beat  of  drum 
They  come,  —  the  gallant  Zouaves  come  ! 
With  gleams  of  blue  and  glints  of  red  ; 
With  airy,  light,  elastic  tread  ; 
With  dashing,  wild,  insouciant  air ; 
With  figures  sinewy,  lithe,  and  spare ; 
With  gait  replete  with  fiery  grace  ; 
With  cloudless  eye  and  boyish  face, 
And  agile  play  of  feet  and  hands, 
Swift  as  a  Bedouin  of  the  sands, 

They  come,  —  the  gay  Zouaves  ! 

Lo  !  as  they  file  along  the  green, 

I  seem  to  see  the  Algerine  ! 

The  marble  piles  of  building  fade, 

And  the  vast  desert,  without  shade  — 

Save  where  the  oasis  uplifts 

Its  green  plumes  'mid  the  sandy  drifts  — 


THE  ZOUAVES.  81 

Stretches  before  my  dazzled  sight 
While,  rising  o'er  a  distant  height, 
On  lean,  swift  steeds,  with  slender  spears, 
The  sallow  Arab  troop  appears, 

To  chase  the  French  Zouaves ! 

They  slope  along  the  gold-red  sand ; 
Their  keen  eyes  sweep  the  sky  and  land ; 
The  lean  steeds  snuff  the  desert  wind  ; 
The  watchful  vulture  soars  behind, 
But  nothing  moves  upon  the  plain ; 
The  keen  eyes  search  the  sands  in  vain. 
^Before,  behind,  and  left  and  right, 
A  sandy  ripple  meets  the  sight : 
Not  even  these  black-eyed  devils  know 
That,  nigh  yon  sand-hill,  lying  low, 

Are  crouched  the  brave  Zouaves ! 

Four  puffs  of  smoke  that  seem  to  float 
From  out  the  earth,  —  a  crackling  note,  — 
Four  saddles  emptied  in  the  troop ! 
Then,  wild  and  shrill  the  Arab  whoop, 
And,  spurring  with  the  stirruped  feet, 
And  dashing  of  the. coursers  fleet, 
And  then  —  four  puffs  of  smoke  once  more, 
Four  saddles  emptied  as  before. 
In  vain  their  Allah  they  invoke,  — 
With  pertinacious  puffs  of  smoke 
Reply  the  brave  Zouaves ! 

Out  of  the  earth,  like  Genii,  rise 
The  red  Zouaves  with  flashing  eyes, 
And  on  the  sallow  Arab  troop 
Like  hawks  upon  a  bird  they  swoop, 
6 


82  THE  ZOUAVES. 

With  bayonet  keen,  with  murderous  gun, 
With  curious,  planned,  erratic  run, 
With  sudden  fall  upon  the  sand, 
With  quick  deploy,  with  gun  in  hand : 
Thus  like  a  meteor  of  the  skies, 
Vivid  with  red  and  blue,  arise 

The  dauntless  French  Zouaves ! 

Over  the  tawny  sands  they  fly, 
Now  seem  they  far,  now  seem  they  nigh. 
They  fire  and  fall,  they  fall  and  fire, 
They  scud  on  limbs  of  sinewy  wire  ; 
In  each  manoeuvre  seeming  wild, 
Each  soldier  .'s  docile  as  a  child; 
And  even  the  fleetest  Arab  finds 
A  foe  that 's  fleeter  than  the  winds. 
Thus,  outmanoeuvred  and  outsped, 
He  turns  and  hides  his  haughty  head 
Before  the  French  Zouaves  ! 

Your  Zouave  corps,  0  haughty  France  ! 
We  looked  on  as  a  wild  romance, 
And  many  a  voice  was  heard  to  scoff 
At  Algiers  and  at  Malakoff ; 
Nor  did  we  Yankees  credit  quite 
Their  evolutions  in  the  fight. 
But  now  we  're  very  sure  what  they 
Have  done  can  here  be  done  to-day, 
When  thus  before  our  sight  deploys 
The  gallant  corps  from  Illinois,  — 
American  Zouaves ! 


A  SOLDIER'S  LETTER.  83 


A  SOLDIER'S   LETTER. 

January  20,  1862. 
WITH  the  head  of  a  drum  for  my  desk,  I  sit  on  a  southern 

slope, 
"While  the  sunlight  streaks  the  apples  that  hang  in  the 

orchard  hard  by, 
And  puzzle  my  brains  over  verses  and  many  a  marvellous 

trope, 

And  vainly  seek  inspiration  from  out  the  sky. 
What  can  I  tell  you  now  that  you  have  not  known  before  1 
How  dearly  I  love  you,  Mary,  and  how  hard  the. parting 

was, 
And  how  bravely  you  kissed  my  lips  when  we  stood  at  the 

open  door, 
And  blessed  me  for  going  with  heart  and  hand  in  the 

cause ! 
0,  sweet  as  a  lily  flushed  with  the  red  of  the  roses  near 

When  beat  by  the  hot,  implacable  sun  above, 
Was  the  hue  of  your  angel  face,  as  tear  after  tear 
Rose  to  your  ivory  eyelids  and  welled  with  love ! 

War  is  not  quite  so  hard  as  you  poor  townspeople  think ; 
We  have  plenty  of  food  to  eat,  and  a  good,  warm  blanket 

at  night, 

And  now  and  then,  you  know,  a  quiet,  moderate  drink ; 
Which  does  n't   hurt  us,   dearest,   and   makes   things 

right. 

But  the  greatest  blessing  of  all   is  the  total  want  of 
care; 


84  A  SOLDIER'S   LETTER. 

The  happy,  complete  reliance  of  the  carefully -guardianed 

child 
Who  has  no  thought  for  his  dinner,  and  is  given  good 

clothes  to  wear, 
And  whose  leisure  moments  are  with  innocent  sports 

beguiled. 
The  drill  of  the  soldier  is  pleasant,  if  one  works  with  a 

willing  heart, 

It  is  only  the  worthless  fellow  that  grumbles  at  double- 
quick  ; 
I  like  the  ingenious  manoeuvres  that  constitute  war  an 

art, 
And  not  even  the  cleaning  of  arms  can  make  me  sick. 

One  of  the  comrades  five  that  sleep  in  the  tent  with  me 
Is  a  handsome,  fair-faced  boy,  with  curling,  sun-burned 

hair; 
Like  me,   he  has  left  a  sweetheart  on  the  shore  of  the 

northern  sea, 

And,  like  her  I  love,  he  says  she  also  is  good  and  fair. 
So  we  talk  of  our  girls  at  night  when  the  other  chaps  are 

asleep,  — 
Talk  in  the  sacred  whispers  that  are  low  with  the  choke 

of  love,  — 

And  often  when  we  are  silent  I  think  I  can  hear  him  weep, 
And  murmur  her  name  in  accents  that  croon  like  the 

nesting  dove. 
Then,  when  we  are  out  on  picket,  and  the  nights  are  calm 

and  still, 
When  our  beats  lie  close  together,  we  pause  and  chatter 

the  same ; 

And  the  weary  hours  pass  swiftly,  till  over  the  distant  hill 
The  sun  comes  up  unclouded  and  fierce  with  flame. 


A  SOLDIER'S  LETTER.  85 

The  scene  that  I  look  on   is   lovely !     The  cotton-fields 

smooth  and  white, 

With  the  bending  negroes  shelling  the  flocculent,  burst- 
ing pods, 
And  the  quiet  sentinels  slowly  pacing  the  neighboring 

height, 

And  now  and  then  hidden  by  groups  of  the  golden-rods. 
Beautiful  are  the  isles  that  mottle  the  slumberous  bay ; 

Beautiful  are  the  azure  veins  of  the  creeks ; 
Beautiful  is  the  crimson  that,  far  away, 

Burns  on  the  woods  like  the  paint  on  an  Indian's  cheeks ! 
Beautiful  are  the  thoughts  of  the  time  when  —     Hist ! 
What  sound  is  that  I  hear  1     'T  is  the  rifle's  continuous 

crack ! 
The  long-roll  beats  to  arms !     I  must  not  —  cannot  be 

missed. 
Dear  love,  I  '11  finish  this  letter  when  I  come  back. 

January  30. 
Don't  be  startled,  my  darling,  at  this  handwriting  not 

being  mine : 

I  have  been  a  little  ill,  and  the  comrade  I  spoke  of  before 
Has  kindly  offered  to  take  from  my  loving  lips  this  line ; 
So  he  holds,  as  you  see,  the  pen  I  can  hold  no  more. 
That  was  a  skirmish  that  came,  as  I  wrote  to  you,  out  on 

the  hill ; 

We  had  sharp  fighting  a  while,  and  I  lost  my  arm. 
There  !  don't  cry,  my  darling  !  —  it  will  not  kill, 

And  other  poor  fellows  there  met  greater  harm. 
I  have  my  left  arm  still  to  fold  you  close  to  my  heart, 
All  the  strength  of  my  lost  one  will  pass  into  that,  I 

know ; 
We  soon  shall  be  together,  never,  never  to  part, 

And  to  suffer  thus  for  your  country  is  bliss,  not  woe ! 


86  THE  PRISONER  OF  WAR. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  WAR. 

As  I  lie  in  my  cot  at  night,  and  look  through  the  open 

door, 
And  watch  the  silken  sky  that  is  woven  with  threads 

of  stars, 
While  the  white  tents  sleep  on  the  field  like  sheep  on  a 

tawny  moor, 
And  the  hushed  streets  traverse  the  camp  like  dusky 


I  think  of  my  comrade  afar,  lying  down  in  a  southern 

cell, 
With  his  life  on  a  paper  lot  and  a  loving  heart  on  his 

life, 
And  my  blood  boils  up  in  my  veins,  and  I  feel  like  a  fiend 

of  hell, 
And  I  long  to  vent  my  hate  and  my  rage  in  strife. 

I  loved  him  with  all  my  love ;  loved  him  even  as  well  as 

she 
Whose  hair  he  carried  away  in  a  locket  close  to  his 

heart; 

I  remember  how  jealous  I  felt  when  under  the  sycamore- 
tree, 

The  night  ere  the  regiment  started,  I  saw  them  part. 
We  had  been  chums  together,  —  had  studied  and  drank 

in  tune ; 

The  joy  or  the  grief  that  struck  him  rebounded  also 
on  me,  — 


THE  PRISONER  OF  WAR.  87 

As  his  joy  arose  mine  followed,  as  waters  follow  the  moon, 
And  his  tears  found  their  way  to  my  heart  as  a  stream 
to  the  sea. 

I  sing  the  irregular  song  of  a  soul  that  is  bursting  with 
pain ! 

There  is  no  metre  for  sorrow,  no  rhythm  for  real  despair  : 
Go  count  the  feet  of  the  wind  as  it  tramples  the  naked 
plain, 

Or  mimic  the  silent  sadness  of  snow  in  the  air  ! 
I  cannot  control  my  heart,  nor  my  innate  desire  of  song, 

I  only  know  that  a  wild  and  impetuous  grief, 
A  fierce,  athletic,  vengeful  feeling  of  wrong, 

Beats  at  my  brain  to-night  and  must  have  relief ! 

Spite  of  all  I  do  to  crush  it,  his  sorrowful  face  will  come, 
Come  with  its  awful  framework  of  interlaced  bars  and 

stone, 
And  out  of  his  patient  visage,  and  lips  that  are  terribly 

dumb, 

I  hear  the  imprisoned  whisper,  "  I  am  alone  ! " 
Solitude  thus  for  him,  the  life  and  soul  of  his  throng ; 

Whose  wit  electric  wakened  the  sluggish  board ; 
Whose  voice,  though  sweet  in  converse,  was  sweeter  still 

in  song ; 
Whose  heart  like  a  cornucopia  always  poured ! 

I  mind  me  when  by  the  Charles  River  we  twain  have 
walked, 

Close  to  the  elms  so  hallowed  in  unwritten  song, 
And  over  the  college  topics  gravely  pondered  and  talked, 

With  devious  student  ideas  of  right  and  wrong. 


88  THE  PRISONER  OF  WAR. 

Ah!    the  river  flews  there  in  its  usual  placid  way ; 

The  wherries  are  moored  at  the  boat-house,  the  elm- 
trees  leaf  and  fall, 
But  there  is  not  a  voice  that  now  could  make  the  old 

college  gay, 
His  dusty  cap  and  his  gown  are  worth  them  all. 

How  can  he  be  a  prisoner  there  when  I  have  him  here  in 

my  heart  ? 

Closer  I  hold  his  image  than  they  in  the  south  hold  him ; 
It  is  wrapped  and  corded  with  fibres  that  never,  never 

will  part, 

And  shrined  in  love  and  friendship  instead  of  a  dun- 
geon grim. 
Up  on  the  fatal  bluff  where  the  gallant  Baker  fell, 

And  the  foe,  insidious,  fired  from  thicket,  and  copse, 

and  tree,  — 
There,  after  fighting  long,  and  bravely,  and  well, 

The  friend  of  my  heart  was  cut  off  as  a  stream  by  the  sea  ! 

Lying  here  in  my  tent  at  night,  and  looking  out  at  the 

door, 

It  is  I  who  am  the  prisoner,  not  you,  0  beloved  friend ! 
It  is  I  who  feel  the  shackles,  and  the  prick  of  the  healing 

sore, 

And  all  the  prison  sufferings  without  end. 
I   see  the  mocking  faces  all  day  through  the  windows 

stare, — 
I  know  they  are  staring  at  you,  but  they  sneeringly 

lower  on  me,  — 
And  I  swear  an  oath  as  sacred  as  a  soldier  ever  can  swear 

That  I  will  be  with  you  there,  or  you  will  be  free ! 
IN  CAMP,  December,  1861. 


WINTER.  89 


WINTER. 

COLD  wind,  white  suow, 

Sweeps  fast,  falls  slow, 
And  chills  the  landscape's  autumn  glow ; 

The  ice-bolts  freeze 

The  naked  trees, 
And  seal  the  old  year's  obsequies. 

A  leaden  sky 

Droops  heavily, 
As  dull  and  glazed  as  dead  man's  eye ; 

The  sweeping  clouds, 

In  cold,  cold  crowds, 
Enfold  the  day  with  ghostly  shrouds. 

The  woods  lie  bare, 

And  here  and  there  ^ 

The  gray  moss  hangs  its  mournful  hair ; 

The  leaves  sun-burned, 

By  fierce  winds  spurned, 
Lie  mouldering  'mid  the  soil  inurned. 

The  leafless  lines 

Of  trailing  vines 
Stretch,  harp-like,  through  the  sounding  pines  j 

From  their  festoons 

Float  wailing  croons, 
As  weird  and  grim  as  northern  runes. 


90  THE  SEWING  BIRD. 

The  day  is  cold, 

The  earth  is  old, 
And  mourns  her  summer's  squandered  gold ; 

The  birds  are  dumb, 

The  springs  are  numb, 
For  winter  in  his  might  has  come. 


THE  SEWING  BIRD. 


A  CHIMNEY'S  shadow,  flung  by  the  sun 

As  it  sank  in  the  west  when  the  day  was  done, 

Silent  and  dark  as  the  noiseless  bat 

Crept  through  the  room  where  the  work-girl  sat, 

Where  she  sat  all  day  at  her  poor  pine  table, 

Working,  as  long  as  her  hands  were  able, 

On  shirt  and  collar  and  chemisette, 

On  gowns  of  silk  and  on  veils  of  net, 

Till  her  busy  fingers  seemed  to  be 

A  skeleton  kind  of  machinery. 

The  table  was  strewn  with  threads  of  silk, 

With  pearly  buttons  that  shone  like  milk, 

With  gaudy  stuffs  of  a  thousand  dyes, 

And  beads  that  gleamed  in  the  gloom  like  eyes ; 

While  in  the  midst  of  these  beautiful  things 

Glimmered  a  Sewing  Bird's  silver  wings. 

But  the  blankets  that  lay  on  her  bed  were  poor, 

And  cracks  were  plain  in  the  crazy  door, 

The  roof  was  low  and  the  floor  was  old, 

And  the  work-girl  shivered  as  if  a-cold ; 


THE  SEWING  BIRD.  91 

And  to  judge  by  the  veins  in  her  wan  white  hand, 
She  did  not  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land. 


n. 

Now  when  the  shadow  crept  through  the  room,     . 

Filling  the  place  with  a  cheerless  gloom, 

So  that  the  weary  work  was  stopped, 

Her  thin,  mechanical  hands  she  dropped, 

And  gazed  at  the  wall  so  bare  and  bald, 

Where  the  shadowy  feet  of  the  twilight  crawled. 

If  at  that  moment  she  dreamed  at  all, 

Or  peopled  with  visions  the  cold,  white  wall, 

She  thought  perhaps  of  that  one  bright  day, 

In  the  month  of  June  or  the  month  of  May, 

When,  rich  with  the  savings  of  many  a  week, 

She  felt  fresh  winds  blow  over  her  cheek, 

As,  with  friends  as  poor  and  lowly  as  she, 

She  caught  her  first  glimpse  of  the  calm,  blue  sea, 

Or  roamed  by  copses  or  sunny  lea, 

And  learned  how  bright  the  world  could  be. 

But  I  doubt  if  the  poor  are  rich  in  dreams, 

Or  build  fine  castles  by  golden  streams  ; 

For  want,  like  frost-bite,  kills  the  grain 

That  Fancy  sows  in  the  teeming  brain, 

And  it  is  not  every  dreamy  stare 

That  is  filling  with  fairies  the  twilight  air. 

in. 

Yet  still  she  sat,  and,  it  may  be,  dreamed  — 
I  hope  so  —  until  there  suddenly  seemed 
To  sweep  through  the  room  a  rustle  of  wings, 
With  a  tinkling  as  if  of  silver  rings, 


92  THE  SEWING  BIRD. 

And  then  a  low  and  a  soaring  song, 

That  every  instant  grew  more  strong. 

She  looked  at  wall  and  window  and  floor, 

She  peered  through  the  gloom  at  the  crazy  door ; 

Nothing  was  visible  anywhere, 

Yet   still  the  song  was  thrilling  the  air ; 

Then  she  turned  her  eyes  to  the  table  of  pine, 

And  saw  something  shiver  and  dimly  shine  ; 

And  lo !  from  the  midst  of  the  shreds  of  silk, 

And  the  pearly  buttons  that  shone  like  milk, 

There  came  the  song  of  the  silver  rings, 

And  the  gleam  and  flutter  of  shining  wings ; 

As  up  from  the  table  the  Sewing  Bird  sprang, 

While  singing  it  soared,  and  soaring  it  sang  :  — • 

"  Follow  me  up  and  follow  me  down, 

Hither  and  thither,  through  all  the  town  ; 

For  there  are  lessons  that  must  be  taught, 

And  there  are  changes  that  must  be  wrought, 

And  there  are  wrongs  that  the  world  shall  know,  — 

So  follow,  follow,  where'er  I  go  !  " 


IV. 

Then  the  work-girl  rose  from  her  rickety  chair, 
And  opened  the  door  that  led  on  the  stair, 
While  swift  overhead  the  Sewing  Bird  flew, 
And  carolled  and  fluttered  as  if  it  knew 
That  it  led  her  spirit  in  threads  as  strong 
As  the  chains  of  love  or  the  poet's  song ; 
While  ever  there  rang  through  the  corridor  hollow 
The  silvery  strain  of  "  Follow  !  Follow  !  " 


THE  SEWING  BIRD.  93 


V. 

So  down  the  avenue  of  Broadway, 

Where  the  lamp-light  shone  like  an  amber  day, 

The  Sewing  Bird  led  the  maiden  along, 

To  the  airy  tune  of  its  fairy  song. 

They  came  to  a  palace  ornate  and  tall, 

With  marble  pillars  and  marble  wall, 

And  windows  of  glass  so  large  and  clear 

That  the  panes  seemed  lucid  as  atmosphere. 

The  work-girl  stopped  as  the  crowd  went  by, 

And  gazed  through  the  windows  with  wistful  eye  j 

For  the  walls  were  splendid  with  paint  and  gold, 

The  couches  were  fit  for  the  Sybarites  old, 

And  the  floor  was  soft  with  the  Brussels  woof, 

And  flowery  frescos  ran  over  the  roof, 

While  a  delicate  radiance  from  globes  of  glass 

Fell  soft  as  sunlight  upon  the  grass. 


VI. 

Who  are  the  princes  —  the  work-girl  thought  - 
That  dwell  in  this  palace  by  Genii  wrought  1 
She  looked,  and  beheld  some  dozen  or  ten 
Young  and  excessively  nice  young  men  ; 
Their  faces  were  beardless,  rosy,  and  fair, 
An  astonishing  curl  was  in  their  hair, 
Their  feet  were  squeezed  into  shiny  boots, 
Their  nails  were  pink,  and  white  at  the  roots, 
Their  hands  were  as  taper,  their  limbs  as  fine, 
As  an  Arab  maiden's  in  Palestine ; 
Their  waistcoats  were  miracles  to  behold, 
Ribbed  with  velvet  and  flecked  with  gold ; 


94  THE  SEWING  BIRD. 

And  perfect  rivers  of  watch-chain  ran 

Over  the  breast  of  each  nice  young  man. 

But  you  could  not  see  in  a  single  face 

Of  courage  or  manhood  the  faintest  trace ; 

Through  every  feature  the  sentiment  ran, 

"  If  you  please,  I  would  rather  not  be  a  man  ! " 

One  of  them  sat  in  an  easy  chair, 

With  smirking,  impudent,  indolent  air, 

Blandly  explaining,  with  smile  serene, 

The  merits  of  Cantator's  sewing-machine  ; 

While  others  ]ounged  through  the  gorgeous  room, 

Diffusing  the  odors  of  Lubin's  perfume, 

Or  gossiping  over  the  last  new  play, 

Or  their  "  spree  "  last  week  —  and  "  Was  n't  it  gay  ? " 

But  the  crowd  at  the  windows  thought  them  sublime 

And  wished  that  they  had  such  an  easy  time. 

As  the  work-girl  gazed  at  this  splendid  array 

Of  Cantator's  youths  on  show  in  Broadway, 

She  gathered  her  shawl  round  her  wasted  form, 

While  her  breath  congealed  on  the  window-panes  warm, 

And  sighed,  "  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

This  is  the  place  where  I  should  be !  " 


VII. 

Then  the  Sewing  Bird  swelled  his  silvery  throat, 
And  trilled  through  the  air  his  crystalline  note  :  — 
"  Follow  me  up  and  follow  me  dow7i, 
Hither  and  thither,  through  all  the  town  ; 
For  there  are  still  more  splendid  marts, 
That  never  will  warm  the  work-girls'  hearts, 
And  the  lesson  is  still  to  be  fully  learned 
How  woman  s  pittance  by  man  is  earned  !  " 


THE  SEWING  BIRD.  95 

VIII. 

'T  was  a  vast,  majestic  dry-goods  store, 

Into  whose  portals  from  every  shore 

Came  cashmeres,  satins,  and  silks,  and  shawls, 

To  flood  the  counters  and  fill  the  halls  : 

There  Paris  sent  its  delicate  gloves, 

"With  mantles,   "  Such   beauties ! "    and  bonnets,   "  Such 

loves ! " 

And  China  yielded  from  primitive  looms 
Its  silks  shot  over  with  changeable  blooms, 
While  India's  golden  tissues  blent 
With  camel's-hair  from  the  Syrian's  tent. 
At  each  counter  was  something,  —  not  man,  not  boy,  — 
A  sort  of  effeminate  hobbledehoy, 
And  over  the  laces  it  simpered  and  smiled, 
And  blandly  each  feminine  idiot  beguiled 
With  "  Charmingest  fashion  !  "  and  "  Is  n't  it  sweet  ] " 
"  Just  allow  me  to  show  you  —  remarkably  neat ! " 
"  No  pattern  is  like  it  —  on  honor  —  in  town, 
Just  becomes  your  complexion,  —  shall  I  put  it  down  ? " 
And  its  frippery  fingers  went  dabbling  through  tapes, 
And  its  glozing  discourse  was  of  trimmings  and  capes, 
And  to  see  its  expressionless  eyes  you  'd  have  thought 
That  its  soul,  like  its  tapes,  had  been  long  ago  bought. 
As  the  work-girl  gazed  on  this  muscleless  crew, 
Who  were  doing  the  things  she  was  suited  to  do, 
She  sighed,  "  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 
This  is  the  place  where  I  should  be  ! " 


IX. 

Then  the  Sewing  Bird  swelled  his  silvery  throat, 
And  uttered  a  piercing,  reverberant  note  :  — 


96  THE  SEWING  BIRD. 

"  Follow  me  here,  and  follow  me  there, 
Out  through  the  free-blowing  mountain  air, 
Up  to  the  heart  of  the  healthy  hill, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  backwoods  still  ; 
For  the  lesson  still  remains  for  you  — 
To  show  you  the  labor  that  men  should  do." 


Up  in  a  wild  Californian  hill, 

Where  the  torrents  swept  with  a  mighty  will, 

And  the  grandeur  of  nature  filled  the  air, 

And  the  cliffs  were  lofty,  rugged,  and  bare, 

Some  thousands  of  lusty  fellows  she  saw 

Obeying  the  first  great  natural  law. 

From  the  mountain's  side  they  had  scooped  the  earth 

Down  to  the  veins  where  the  gold  had  birth, 

And  the  mighty  pits  they  had  girdled  about 

With  ramparts  massive,  and  wide,  and  stout ; 

And  they  curbed  the  torrents,  and  swept  them  round 

Wheresoever  they  willed,  through  virgin  ground. 

They  rocked  huge  cradles  the  livelong  day, 

And  shovelled  the  heavy,  tenacious  clay, 

And  grasped  the  nugget  of  gleaming  ore, 

The  sinew  of  commerce  on  every  shore. 

Their  beards  were  rough  and  their  eyes  were  bright, 

For  their  labor  was  healthy,  their  hearts  were  light ; 

And  the  kings  and  princes  of  distant  lands 

Blessed  the  work  of  their  stalwart  hands. 


Then  high  o'er  the  shovel's  and  pickaxe's  clang 
Loudly  the  song  of  the  Sewing  Bird  rang  :  — 


THE  SEWING  BIRD.  97 

"  See,  see,  see,  see  ! 

THIS  is  the  place  where  MEN  should  be  !  " 

And  he  soared  once  more  through  the  boundless  air, 

While  the  work-girl  followed  him,  wondering  where. 


XI. 

She  saw  a  region  of  mighty  woods 
Stretching  away  for  millions  of  roods ; 
The  odorous  cedar  and  pine-tree  tall, 
And  the  live  oak,  the  grandest  among  them  all, 
And  the  solemn  hemlock,  massive  and  grim, 
Claiming  broad  space  for  each  mighty  limb. 
Then  she  heard  the  clang  of  the  woodman's  axe 
Booming  along  through  the  lumber-tracks, 
And  she  heard  the  crack  of  the  yielding  trunk, 
As  deeper  and  deeper  the  keen  axe  sunk, 
And  the  swishing  fall  —  the  sonorous  thrill  — 
And  the  following  stillness,  more  than  stilL 
Then,  moving  among  the  avenues  dim, 
She  saw  the  lumbermen,  giant  of  limb  ; 
The  frankness  of  heaven  was  in  each  face, 
And  their  forms  were  grand  with  untutored  grace ; 
Their  laugh  was  hearty,  their  blow  was  strong, 
And  sweet  as  the  wood-notes  their  working  song, 
As  they  hewed  the  limbs  from  the  giant  tree, 
And  stripped  off  his  leafy  mystery  ; 
They  breathed  the  air  with  elastic  lungs, 
They  trolled  their  ditties  with  mirthful  tongues, 
And  to  see  it  would  do  a  citizen  good, 
With  what  unction  they  relished  their  homely  food ; 
For  their  hunger  was  keen  as  their  trenchant  axe, 
And  their  jokes  as  broad  as  their  brawny  backs. 

7 


98  THE  SEWING  BIRD. 

Then  the  Sewing  Bird  sang,  again  and  again, 

As  he  soared  o'er  the  sonorous  woods  of  Maine, 

"  See,  see,  see,  see  ! 

THIS  is  the  place  where  MEN  should  bef" 

And^he  floated  once  more  through  the  azure  air, 

And  the  work-girl  followed  him,  wondering  where. 

XII. 

Vast  plateaus  of  loamy  land  she  saw, 

Quickening  with  life  in  the  early  thaw. 

The  pulse  of  the  waking  spring  she  heard, 

And  the  broken  trills  of  the  gladdened  bird, 

And  the  teams  afield  with  their  heavy  plod 

As  they  dragged  the  share  through  the  juicy  sod. 

Through  the  crisp,  clear  air  she  heard  the  voice 

Of  sturdy  ploughmen  and  farmer-boys, 

And  a  busy  din  from  the  farm-yards  rang, 

And  she  heard  the  spades  in  the  furrows  clang. 

Then  a  sudden  change  swept  over  the  scene, 

As  the  summer  sun  with  a  light  serene 

Smiled  upon  cottage  and  field  and  fold, 

And  reddened  the  harvests  of  waving  gold. 

Then  down  through  the  golden  sea  there  came 

The  mowers  swarthy  and  stout  of  frame ; 

And  the  cradle-scythe  in  their  hands  they  swung 

Till  the  hiss  of  the  blade  through  the  grain-fields  rung, 

As  they  cut  their  way  with  a  mighty  motion, 

Like  sharp-prowed  ships  in  a  yellow  ocean. 

Then  the  Sewing  Bird  sang  like  a  mellow  horn, 

As1  it  soared  o'er  Ohio's  land  of  corn, 

"  See,  see,  see,  see  f 

THIS  is  the  place  where  MEN  should  be  I " 


A  SUMMER  IDYL.  99 

XIII. 

The  work-girl  sat  in  her  attic  room, 
Cold  arid  silent,  and  wrapped  in  gloom ; 
There  was  no  longer  a  glimmer  of  day, 
And  the  Sewing  Bird  still  on  the  table  lay. 
The  voice  was  silent  that  once  had  sung, 
And  silent  forever  the  silver  tongue ; 
But  she  pondered  long  on  the  strange  decree 
That  she,  wherever  she  turned,  must  see 
Men  in  the  places  where  women  should  be  J 


A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

IT  was  a  moonlit  summer  night ; 

The  heavens  were  drenched  with  silver  rain, 
And  frowning  rose  Katahdin's  height 

Above  the  murmuring  woods  of  Maine. 

Close  by  our  resting-place  a  stream 
That  seemed  to  long  to  kiss  our  feet 

Sang,  as  it  went,  some  fairy  theme,  — 
Musical,  low,  and  incomplete. 

The  world  was  hushed,  but  nothing  slept. 

The  cricket  shrilled  amid  the  sheaves, 
And  through  the  mighty  woods  there  crept 

The  mystic  utterances  of  leaves. 


100  A  SUMMER  IDYL. 

Never  had  moonbeams  shone  so  bright, 
Never  had  earth  seemed  half  so  fair  • 

I  loved  the  stream,  the  trees,  the  night, 
The  wondrous  azure  of  the  air. 

And  through  my  very  finger-tips 
I  felt  the  full  enjoyment  thrill ; 

I  wished  I  could  with  loving  lips 

Kiss  the  sweet  moon  that  crowned  the  hill ! 

Ah,  why  1     Another  moon  I  knew, 

Less  luminous,  but  all  as  fair, 
Above  my  shoulder  shining,  through 

A  wondrous  haze  of  golden  hair ;  — 

Shining  as  once  Diana  shone 

Upon  the  boy,  in  Ida's  grove ; 
Her  stooping  face,  no  longer  wan, 

Flushed  in  the  harvest-time  of  love. 

So  not  for  me  that  orb  serene, 

That  grandly  crowned  the  mountain-crest ; 
And,  turning  to  my  proper  queen, 

I  drew  her  down  upon  my  breast. 

1  0  Amy,'  said  I,  *  shine  on  me 

Through  all  my  life  as  that  moon  shines, 
Shedding  o'er  each  asperity 

The  light  that  softens  and  refines ;  — 

« 

'  So  mildly,  that  my  eyes  can  rest 

Untiring  on  your  gentle  face, 
Yet  not  so  distant  but  my  breast 

May  be  your  happy  resting-place. 


,  IDYL.'- .    :  \  \  '>    \  A     101 


*  Bestow  that  sweet,  attractive  spell 
That  draws  the  sea  toward  the  skies, 

And  let  my  tide  of  being  swell 
Beneath  the  lustre  of  your  eyes. 

t  And  if  some  sullen  cloud  should  sail 
'Twixt  you  and  me  in  social  space, 

Why,  when  't  is  past  I  will  inhale 
A  sweeter  influence  from  your  face. 

'  Be  changeful,  too,  like  that  sweet  moon ! 

Change  is  the  law  of  earthly  life, 
And  nature  hums  the  varying  tune 

Of  weal  and  woe,  of  peace  and  strife.' 

She  ruffled  all  her  yellow  hair, 

But,  answering  not  a  single  word, 
Veiled  in  the  dusky  twilight  air, 

She  nestled  to  me  like  a  bird. 

And  in  the  vague  electric  spark, 

Felt  only  when  cheek  touches  cheek, 

I  knew  through  all  the  shadows  dark 
The  promise  that  she  did  not  speak. 

0  blessed  moonlit  summer  night ! 

When  earth  seemed  drenched  with  silver  rain, 
And  frowning  rose  Katahdin's  height 

Above  the  murmuring  woods  of  Maine. 


102  BY  THE  PASS  A  1C. 


BY   THE   PASSAIC. 

WHERE  the  river  seeks  the  cover 

Of  the  trees  whose  boughs  hang  over, 

And  the  slopes  are  green  with  clover, 

In  the  quiet  month  of  May ; 
Where  the  eddies  meet  and  mingle, 
Babbling  o'er  the  stony  shingle, 
There  I  angle, 
There  I  dangle, 
All  the  day. 

0,  't  is  sweet  to  feel  the  plastic 
Rod,  with  top  and  butt  elastic, 
Shoot  the  line  in  coils  fantastic, 
Till,  like  thistle-down,  the  fly 
Lightly  drops  upon  the  water, 
Thirsting  for  the  finny  slaughter, 
As  I  angle, 
And  I  dangle, 
Mute  and  sly. 

Then  I  gently  shake  the  tackle, 
Till  the  barbed  and  fatal  hackle 
In  its  tempered  jaws  shall  shackle 
That  old  trout,  so  wary  grown. 
Now  I  strike  him  !  joy  ecstatic  ! 
Scouring  runs  !  leaps  acrobatic  ! 
So  I  angle, 
So  I  dangle, 
All  alone. 


BY  THE  PASSAIC.  103 

Then  when  grows  the  sun  too  fervent, 
And  the  lurking  trouts,  observant, 
Say  to  ine,  *  Your  humble  servant ! 

Now  we  see  your  treacherous  hook  ! ' 
Maud,  as  if  by  hazard  wholly, 
Saunters  down  the  pathway  slowly, 
While  I  angle, 
There  to  dangle 
With  her  hook. 

Then  somehow  the  rod  reposes, 
And  the  book  no  page  uncloses ; 
But  I  read  the  leaves  of  roses 

That  unfold  upon  her  cheek ; 
And  her  small  hand,  white  and  tender, 
Rests  in  mine.     Ah !  what  can  send  her 
Thus  to  dangle 
While  I  angle? 
Cupid,  speak  I 


104  THE  THKEE  GANNETS. 


THE  THREE   GANNETS. 


ON  a  wrinkled  rock,  in  a  distant  sea, 

Three  white  gannets  sat  in  the  sun ; 
They  shook  the  brine  from  their  feathers  so  fine, 

And  lazily,  one  by  one, 
They  sunnily  slept  —  while  the  tempest  crept. 

ii. 

In  a  painted  boat,  on  a  distant  sea, 

Three  fowlers  sailed  merrily  on, 
And  each  took  aim,  as  he  came  near  the  game, 

And  the  gannets  fell,  one  by  one, 
And  fluttered  and  died  —  while  the  tempest  sighed. 


in. 

Then  a  cloud  came  over  the  distant  sea, 

A  darkness  came  over  the  sun, 
And  a  storm-wind  smote  on  the  painted  boat, 

And  the  fowlers  sank,  one  by  one, 
Down,  down  with  their  craft  —  while  the  tempest  laughed. 


THE  SEA.  105 


THE   SEA. 

EBB  and  flow  !  ebb  and  flow  ! 
By  basalt  crags,  through  caverns  low, 
Through  rifted  rocks,  o'er  pebbly  strand, 
On  windy  beaches  of  naked  sand ! 

To  and  fro  !  to  and  fro  ! 

Chanting  ever  and  chanting  slow, 

Thy  harp  is  swept  with  liquid  hands, 

And  thy  voice  is  breathing  of  distant  lands ! 

Sweet  and  low  !  sweet  and  lo.w  ! 

Those  golden  echoes  I  surely  know. 

Thy  lips  are  rich  with  the  lazy  south, 

And  the  tuneful  icebergs  have  touched  thy  mouth. 

Come  and  go  !  come  and  go  ! 

The  sun  may  shine  and  the  winds  may  blow, 

But  thou  wilt  forever  sing,  0  sea ! 

And  I  never,  ah !  never,  shall  sing  like  thee  ! 

December,  1854. 


106  WILLY  AND  I. 


WILLY  AND    I. 

WE  grew  together  in  wind  and  rain, 
We  shared  the  pleasure,  we  shared  the  pain ; 
I  would  have  died  for  him,  and  he, 
I  thought,  would  have  done  the  same  for  me,  — 
'     Willy  and  I. 

% 

Summer  and  winter  found  us  together, 
Through  snow  and  storm  and  shiny  weather ; 
Together  we  hid  in  the  scented  hay, 
Or  plucked  the  blooms  of  our  English  May,  — 
Willy  and  I.  " 

I  called  him  husband,  he  called  me  wife, 
We  builded  the  dream  of  a  perfect  life  : 
He  was  to  conquer  some  noble  state, 
And  I  was  to  love  him  through  every  fate,  — 
Willy  and  I. 

0,  he  was  so  fair,  with  his  golden  hair, 
And  his  breath  was  sweet  as  our  homestead  air ! 
My  cheeks  were  red,  —  and  the  neighbors  said, 
A  thousand  pities  we  were  not  wed,  — 
Willy  and  I. 

Now  I  stand  alone  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
With  none  of  the  pleasure  and  all  the  pain ; 
I  am  a  beggar,  and  Willy  is  dead, 
And  the  blood  of  another  is  on  his  head,  — 
Willy  and  I. 


WHEN  I  CAME  BACK  FROM  SEA.       107 


THE   CHALLENGE. 

A  WARRIOR  hung  his  plumed  helm 
On  the  rugged  trunk  of  an  aged  elm ; 
'  Where  is  the  knight  so  bold,'  he  cried, 
'  That  dares  my  haughty  crest  deride  1 ' 

The  wind  came  by  with  a  sullen  howl, 

And  dashed  the  helm  on  the  pathway  foul, 

And  shook  in  scorn  each  sturdy  limb,  — 

For  where  was  the  knight  that  could  fight  with  him  ? 


WHEN  I   CAME  BACK  FROM  SEA. 

WHEN  we  set  sail  to  chase  the  whale 

From  old  Nantucket  Bay, 
0,  a  lighter,  merrier  heart  than  mine 

Never  yet  sailed  away ! 
While  some  were  sad,  and  none  was  glad, 

I  was  singing  with  glee  ; 
For  I  was  to  marry  sweet  Maggie  Gray 

When  I  came  back  from  sea. 

Her  hair  was  brown  as  the  kelp  that  drifts 
Where  sea-currents  come  and  go  ; 

Like  gentians  peeping  through  snowy  rifts, 
Her  blue  eyes  shone  in  snow. 


108  WHEN  I  CAME  BACK   FROM  SEA. 

And  further  down  the  sea-pink  grew, 

Healthy,  hardy,  and  free  ; 
And  all  these  treasures  would  be  mine 

When  I  came  back  from  sea. 


Wherever  I  went  in  the  far,  far  south, 

In  strait  or  in  calm  lagoon, 
My  heart,  like  the  cheerful  heart  it  was, 

Kept  singing  a  merry  tune. 
It  shortened  the  watch  of  the  weary  nights, 

It  lightened  my  work  for  me ; 
For  it  sang,  '  You  '11  marry  sweet  Maggie  Gray 

When  you  come  back  from  sea.' 

My  comrades  too,  though  rude  and  rough, 

Ever  ready  to  give  and  take, 
Were  gentle,  —  for  all  of  them  knew  my  bird, 

And  were  kind  to  me  for  her  sake  ; 
And  none  ever  dared,  in  our  fo'castle  games, 

To  make  ribald  jests  to  me ; 
For  I  was  to  marry  sweet  Maggie  Gray 

When  I  came  back  from  sea. 


For  three  long  years  we  sailed  and  whaled, 

Until  we  had  filled  our  hold ; 
Then  homeward  sped,  while  every  head 

Was  running  on  wages  and  gold. 
But  I  did  not  care  what  would  be  my  share, 

However  large  it  might  be ; 
My  only  thought  was  of  Maggie  Gray, 

As  I  came  back  from  sea. 


WHEN  I  CAME  BACK  FROM  SEA.  109 

At  last  one  day  we  saw  the  bay 

And  the  old  Nantucket  shore ; 
I  landed  and  ran  like  an  Indian  man 

To  Maggie's  cottage  door. 
But  the  door  was  barred,  and  there  was  not  a  soul 

To  give  word  or  welcome  to  me ; 
For  Maggie  Gray  had  gone  away, 

And  I  —  had  come  back  from  sea ! 


I  ran  like  mad  through  the  little  town, 

And  questioned  all  I  met ; 
But  I  only  got  a  shake  of  the  head, 

Or  a  look  of  sad  regret ; 
Until  old  Ben  —  a  rough  man  too  — 

Came  kindly  up  to  me, 
Saying,  '  Lad,  't  were  better  a  thousand  times 

You  'd  never  come  back  from  sea.' 


Then  I  heard  it  all,  —  how  a  gay  gallant 

Had  come  from  Boston  down, 
And  robbed  the  nest  of  my  little  pet  bird, 

And  carried  her  off  to  town ; 
While  I  was  left  with  a  broken  heart, 

And  nothing  to  welcome  me, 
But  a  tale  of  shame  and  a  ruined  name, 

When  I  came  back  from  sea. 


110  AN  OLD  STORY. 


AN  OLD  STORY. 


THE  snow  falls  fast  in  the  silent  street, 
And  the  wind  is  laden  with  cutting  sleet, 
And  there  is  a  pitiless  glare  in  the  sky, 
As  a  haggard  woman  goes  wandering  by. 


The  rags  that  wrap  her  wasted  form 
Are  frozen  stiff  in  the  perishing  storm, 
And  she  is  so  cold  that  the  snow-flakes  rest 
Unmelted  upon  her  marble  breast. 


Ah  !  who  could  believe  that  those  rayless  eyes 
Were  once  as  sunny  as  April  skies, 
And  the  flowers  she  plucked  in  the  early  spring 
Loved  to  be  touched  by  so  pure  a  thing  ? 


JT  is  past,  —  and  the  fierce  wind,  shrieking  by, 
Drowns  the  faint  gasp  of  her  parting  sigh ; 
And  lifeless  she  falls  at  the  outer  gate 
Of  him  who  has  left  her  desolate ! 


Silently  falls  the  snow  on  her  face, 

Clothing  her  form  in  its  stainless  grace ; 

As  though  God,  in  his  mercy,  had  willed  that  she 

Should  die  in  a  garment  of  purity. 


HELEN  LEE.  Ill 


HELEN  LEE. 


ROSY-CHEEKED,  dark -haired  October 

Through  the  land  was  passing  gayly, 

Crowned  with  maize-leaves,  and  behind  him 
Followed  Pleuty^with  her  horn, 

Calling  in  the  later  harvests, 

Flattering  the  chuckling  farmer, 

Pelting  him  with -ruddy  apples, 

And  with  shocks  of  yellow  corn. 


He  it  was  whose  royal  pleasure 
Clothed  the  woods  in  gold  and  purple  j 
He  it  was  whose  fickle  pleasure 

Clothed  them,  stripped,  and  left  them  bare 
Then,  as  if  in  late  contrition, 
Summoned  back  the  truant  summer, 
Wove  of  smoke  an  azure  mantle 

For  the  shivering  earth  to  wear. 


Poor  amends  the  Indian  summer 
Made,  with  all  its  pitying  sunshine, 
For  the  loss  of  leafy  glory, 

Painted  flower,  and  singing  bird ; 
So  from  rocks,  and  trees,  and  hedges, 
From  the  fallen  leaves  and  grasses, 
Came  a  sound  of  mourning,  as  the 

Melancholy  breezes  stirred. 


112  HELEN  LEE. 

Yet  the  train  of  hale  October 

Rang  with  laughter,  song,  and  dancing, 

As  the  young  men  and  the  maidens 

Sang  and  danced  the  harvest-home 
As  from  many  a  low-roofed  farmhouse 
Flashed  the  lights  of  merry-making, 
Rose  the  note  of  ready-making 

For  the  merriment  to  come. 


Pleasant  was  the  starry  evening, 
Pleasant,  though  the  air  was  chilly, 
When  the  youths  and  maidens  gathered 

At  the  call  of  David  Lee,  — 
David  Lee,  the  hearty  farmer, 
Who  had  wrestled  with  his  acres, 
And  in  barn,  and  stack,  and  cellar 

Stored  the  spoils  of  victory. 

As  the  beaks  of  captured  vessels, 
Gilded  ensigns,  suits  of  armor, 
Shone  as  trophies  on  the  temples 

Of  the  gods,  in  classic  days, 
So  around  the  farmer's  kitchen 
Hung  long  rows  of  golden  melons ; 
So  along  the  farmer's  rafters 

Hung  festoons  of  perfect  maize. 

Not  a  child  had  Farmer  David,  — 
He  had  known  the  loss  of  children, 
Known  a  parent's  voiceless  anguish, 

When  the  rose  forsakes  the  cheek,  - 


HELEN  LEE.  113 


When  the  hand  grows  thin  and  thinner, 
And  the  pulses  fainter,  feebler,  — 
When  the  eyes  are  sunk  and  leaden, 
And  the  tongue  forgets  to  speak. 


One  bright  spring  a  pair  of  rosebuds, 
Growing  in  the  father's  garden, 
Filled  his  hope  with  crimson  promise, 

They  were  gone  in  early  June. 
Then  there  came  a  tiny  daughter, 
Learned  to  kiss  and  call  him  '  Father,' 
Vanished  like  an  April  snow-flake,  — 

And  the  mother  followed  soon. 


Then  his  face  grew  dark  and  stony, 
Then  his  soul  shrunk  up  in  sorrow, 
As  a  flower  shuts  at  nightfall 

From  the  dampness  and  the  cold ; 
Till  a  sister,  dying,  left  him 
Her  one  child,  a  blue-eyed  darling, 
Whose  dear  love  and  tender  graces 

Kept  his  heart  from  growing  old. 

Maidenhood  stole  softly  on  her, 
Like  the  changing  of  the  seasons, 
Till  the  neighbors  came  to  think  her 

Beautiful  as  one  could  be ; 
And  the  young  men,  when  they  met  her, 
Blushed,  they  knew  not  why,  and  stammered, 
And  would  prize  a  kingdom  cheaper 

Than  a  smile  of  Helen  Lee. 
8 


114  HELEN  LEE. 

In  the  barn  the  youths  and  maidens 
Stripped  the  corn  of  husk  and  tassel, 
Warmed  the  chillness  of  October 

With  the  life  of  spring  and  May ; 
While  through  every  chink  the  lanterns, 
And  sonorous  gusts  of  laughter, 
Made  assault  on  night  and  silence 

With  the  counterfeit  of  day. 


Songs  were  sung,  —  sweet  English  ballads. 
Which  their  fathers  and  their  mothers 
Sang  together  by  the  rivers 

Of  the  dear  old  fatherland  ; 
Tales  were  told,  —  quaint  English  stories, 
Tales  of  humor  and  of  pathos ; 
Tales  of  love,  and  home,  and  fireside, 

That  a  child  could  understand. 


Most  they  called  on  Richard  Miller, 

Prince  among  the  story-tellers ; 

Young  and  graceful,  strong  and  handsome, 

Rich  in  all  that  blesses  life ; 
For  his  stories  ended  happy,  — • 
Ended  always  with  a  marriage ; 
Every  youth  became  a  husband, 

Every  maid  became  a  wife. 

So  he  told  how  Harry  Marline 
Roved  about  the  world  a  long  time, 
Then  returned  to  find  the  maiden 

Whom  he  loved  had  proven  true,  — 


HELEN  LEE.  115 


How  he  brought  home  gold  and  silver, 
How  they  made  a  famous  wedding ; 
And  he  closed  by  saying  slyly, 
*  An  example,  girls,  for  you ! ' 


Then  said  Helen,  smiling  archly, 
'  I  will  never  have  a  husband  ! ' 
And  the  ear  which  she  was  husking 

Fell  into  the  basket,  red ; 
Whereupon  they  clapped  and  shouted, 
For  a  red  ear  means  a  lover, 
And  the  maiden,  vexed  and  blushing, 

In  the  shadow  hid  her  head. 


Soon  the  jest  was  quite  forgotten, 
And  her  face  again  she  lifted 
To  behold  his  eyes  upon  her 

With  a  look  so  strange  and  new, 
That,  when  games  and  dancing  followed, 
And  she  chanced  to  touch  his  fingers, 
In  her  hand  she  felt  a  tremor, 

On  her  cheek  a  warmer  hue. 


When  the  candles  burning  dimly, 
Flaring,  smoking  in  the  socket, 
Sent  the  party  homeward,  shouting, 

Through  the  starlight  crisp  and  clear, 
Richard  lingered  in  the  doorway,  • 

Took  the  bashful  hand  of  Helen, 
Whispered  softly  in  the  darkness 

Pleasant  words  for  maid  to  hear. 


116  HELEN  LEE. 

When  she  sought  her  little  chamber, 
Long  she  could  not  sleep  for  thinking 
Of  his  looks,  his  voice,  and  language, 

For  the  youth  had  turned  her  head ; 
In  her  dreams  she  murmured,  '  Richard,' 
When  she  woke  her  thought  was,  '  Richard,' 
When  she  bade  *  Good  morning,  father ! ' 

'  Richard,'  she  had  almost  said. 


0  the  pleasant,  pleasant  autumn ! 

How  it  seemed  like  spring-time  to  them ! 

How  the  flowers  budded,  blossomed, 

In  their  hearts  afresh  each  day! 
0  the  walks  they  had  together, 
From  the  singing-schools  and  parties, 
In  the  white  and  frosty  moonlight, 

In  the  starlight  cold  and  gray ! 

0  the  happy  winter  evenings ! 
Long,  indeed,  to  want  and  sickness, 
Short  enough  to  youth  and  maiden 

By  the  hearth  of  David  Lee ; 
Looking  in  each  other's  faces, 
Listening  to  each  other's  voices, 
Blending  with  the  golden  present 

Golden  days  that  were  to  be. 

When  the  voice  of  spring  was  calling 
To  the  flowers  in  field  and  forest, 
'  It  is  time  to  waken,  children ! ' 

And  the  flowers  obeyed  the  call ; 


HELEN  LEE.  117 


When  the  cattle  on  the  hillside, 
And  the  fishes  in  the  river, 
Felt  anew  the  joy  of  living, 
Was  a  wedding  festival. 

Violets  and  honeysuckles 

Bloomed  on  window-sill  and  mantel, 

On  the  old  clock's  oaken  turret, 

In  the  young  bride's  flaxen  hair ; 
And  the  sweet-brier  filled  the  morning 
With  its  eloquence  of  odor  ;  — 
'  Life  is  cold,  but  love  can  warm  it ; 

0,  be  faithful,  happy  pair ! ' 

Solemnly  the  village  pastor 
Said  the  simple  marriage-service  ; 
Then  came  one,  with  roguish  twinkle, 

Asking,  '  had  another  heard 
Of  a  certain  little  maiden 
Who  would  never  have  a  husband  1 ' 
And  the  young  bride  turned  to  Richard, 

Smiled,  but  answered  not  a  word. 


And  as  Farmer  Lee  looked  on  them, 
Down  his  cheek  the  tears  were  falling, 
But  a  light  shone  from  his  features 

On  the  circle  gathered  round, 
And  he  leaned  on  Richard's  shoulder, 
Saying,  '  Friends,  be  happy  with  me, 
For  I  have  not  lost  a  daughter, 

But  a  worthy  son  have  found ! ' 


118  STRAWBERRIES. 


STRAWBERRIES. 


THE  garden  was  filled  with  odors 

From  jasmine  and  heliotrope, 
And  the  tender  moss-rose,  muffled 

In  its  beautiful  velvet  cope  ; 
White  currants,  like  beads  of  amber, 

Strung  upon  sea-green  silk, 
Mingled  their  spicy  clusters 

With  snowberries  white  as  milk. 

ii. 
I  watched  her  plucking  the  strawberries, 

And  bending  over  the  bank, 
Where  the  luscious  rubies  lay  hiding, 

As  if  from  her  search  they  shrank ; 
And  when  she  bit  them,  she  opened 

Lips  ripe  and  red  as  they,  — 
Ah !  if  I  had  been  the  strawberries, 

I  would  not  have  hidden  away. 

in. 
*  Are  you  not  fond  of  strawberries'? 

Why  don't  you  pluck  and  eat  1 
See,  here  is. a  noble  fellow, 

Juicy,  and  red,  and  sweet. 
Don't  stand  there  looking  so  solemn, 

As  if  you  thought  't  was  a  sin 
To  eat  of  such  delicate  morsels, 

But  open  your  mouth  and  begin.' 


BATTLEDORES.  119 

IV. 

'  Ah !  Imogen,  dear,'  I  answered, 

'  I  care  for  no  fruit  but  one  : 
'T  is  as  ripe  and  red  as  this  berry, 

And  as  full  of  the  blood  of  the  sun. 
But  you  selfishly  hold  it  from  me, 

Nor  offer  me  even  a  part/ 
*  What  is  this  fruit  1 '  she  questioned. 

'  This  fruit,'  I  said,  «  is  your  heart ! ' 

v. 

The  strawberry  dropped  from  her  fingers, 

And  she  stretched  out  her  little  hand, 
And  I  knew  that,  instead  of  the  fruit,  it  held 

The  sweetest  heart  in  the  land. 
So  we  left  the  strawberries  lying 

In  their  shadowy  leaves  that  day, 
And  silently  walked  in  the  garden, 

While  the  long  hours  stole  away. 


BATTLEDORES. 


MAT  is  blond  and  Madge  is  brown, 
And  'twixt  the  two  I  fly ; 

One  lives  in  country,  one  in  town, 
But  yet  for  both  I  sigh. 


120  BATTLEDORES. 

Madge  says  that  I  'm  in  love  with  May, 
And  pouts  a  sweet  disdain, 

Yet  all  the  while  her  brown  eyes  say, 
'  I  fear  no  rival's  reign.' 

n. 

May  is  calm,  and  like  the  moon 

That  sails  the  summer  sky, 
Her  voice  is  sweeter  than  the  tune 

That  scented  night-winds  sigh  ; 
And  underneath  her  quiet  glance 

All  happily  I  lie, 
And  live  a  dreamy,  sweet  romance 

When  her  fair  form  is  nigh. 

in. 

Thus  'twixt  the  two  my  heart  is  thrown, 

And  shuttle-like  I  fly ; 
For  blue-eyed  May  is  all  my  own, 

When  brown  Madge  is  not  by. 
But  loving  each,  and  loving  both, 

I  know  not  how  to  lie, 
So  here  's  to  both,  however  loth, 

Good-by,  good-by,  good-by ! 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  121 


THE    FINISHING   SCHOOL. 


THE   SCHOOL. 

Miss  MARY  DEGAI,  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
Was  as  pretty  a  maiden  as  ever  was  seen. 

Her  eyes  were  deep  blue,  — 

Not  that  meaningless  hue 
That  one  sees  on  old  china,  and  sometimes  on  new ; 

Which  really  implies 

Hers  were  not  saucer  eyes, 
Though  the  people  declared  —  and  I  'm  not  sure  which 

worser  is  — 
That,  though  not  saucer  eyes,  they  had  worked  many 

sorceries. 

Her  hair  was  that  shade  of  which  poets  are  fond, 
A  compromise  lustrous  'twixt  chestnut  and  blond. 

Her  figure  was  fragile, 

Yet  springy  and  agile ; 
While  her.  clear,  pallid  skin,  so  essentially  Frenchy, 

Neither  brunette  nor  fair, 

Just  gave  her  the  air 
Of  a  sort  of  Fifth  Avenue  Beatrix  Cenci. 

With  a  spick  and  span  new,  superfine  education, 
Befitting  a  maid  of  such  fortunate  station, 
Miss  Mary  Degai  had  just  made  her  debut, 

From  the  very  select, 

Genteel,  circumspect 

Establishment  kept  by  —  it  cannot  be  wrong 
Just  to  mention  the  name  —  by  one  Madame  Cancan. 


122 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


This  Madame  Cancan  was  a  perfect  Parisian, 
Her  morals  infernal,  her  manners  elysian. 


She  was  slender  and  graceful,  and  rouged  with  much  art, 
A  mistress  of  dumb  show,  from  ogle  to  start. 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  123 

Her  voice  was  delightful,  her  teeth  not  her  own,  — 
And  a  cane-bottomed  chair  when  she  sat  seemed  a  throne. 
In  short,  this  dear,  elegant  Madame  Cancan 
Was  like  a  French  dinner  at  some  restaurant,  — 
That  is,  she  completely  was  made  a  la  carte, 
And  I  think  she  'd  a  truffle  instead  of  a  heart. 
But  then  what  good  rearing  she  gave  to  her  pupils ! 
They  dressed  like  those  elegant  ladies  at  Goupil's 
One  sees  in  the  prints  just  imported  from  France ; 
With  what  marvellous  grace  did  they  join  in  the  dance ! 
No  Puritan  modesty  marred  their  toumure,  — 
Being  modest  is  nearly  as  bad  as  being  poor,  — 
No  shudder  attacked  them  when  man  laid  his  hand  on 
Their  waists  in  the  redowa's  graceful  abandon, ' 
As  they  swung  in  that  waltz  to  voluptuous  music. 
Ah  !  did  we  but  see 
Our  sisters  so  free, 

I  warrant  the  sight  would  make  both  me  and  you  sick ! 
Thus  no  trouble  was  spared  through  those  young  misses' 

lives 

To  make  them  good  partners,  and  —  very  bad  wives. 
Receptions  were  given  each  week  on  a  Wednesday,  — 
Which  day  by  the  school  was  entitled  "  the  men's  day," 
Because  on  such  date  young  New  York  was  allowed 
To  visit  en  masse  that  ingenuous  crowd, 
When  they  talked  threadbare  nothings  and  flat   shilly- 
shally, 

Of  Gottschalk's  mustache,  or  Signora  Vestvali, 
Followed  up  by  the  thrillingest  questions  and  answers, 
Such  as  —  which  they  liked  best,  the  schottische  or  the 

lancers  ? 

No  flirting,  of  course,  was  permitted;     0  dear ! 
If  Madame  Cancan  such  a  word  were  to  hear, 


124 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


She  would  look  a  whole  beltful  of  dagger-blades  at  you, 
And  faint  in  the  style  of  some  favorite  statue. 


The  men  were  invited  alone  to  impart 

To  her  young  protegees  that  most  difficult  art 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  125 

Of  conversing  with  ease ;  and  if  ease  was  the  aim 

That  Madame  had  in  view  she  was  not  much  to  blame, 

For  I  vow  she  succeeded  so  well  with  her  shes, 

That  her  school  might  take  rank  as  a  chapel  of  ease ! 

Au  reste,  Madame's  pension  was  quite  in  the  fashion  : 

None  better  knew  how  to  put  shawl  or  pin  sash  on 

Than  did  her  young  ladies  ;  't  was  good  as  a  play 

To  watch  the  well-bred  and  impertinent  way 

They  could  enter  a  room  in.     Their  gait  in  the  street 

Was  five-barred,  —  one  might  say,  —  't  was  so  high  and 

complete. 

Then  their  boots  were  so  small,  and  their  stockings  so  neat, — 
Alas  !  that  such  dainty  and  elegant  feet 

Should  be  trained  a  la  mode 
In  that  vicious  gymnasium,  the  modern  girls'  school, 

To  trip  down  the  road 

That,  while  easy  and  broad, 
Conducts  to  a  place  that 's  more  spacious  than  cool ! 

Miss  Mary  Degai 

Was  the  pet  protegee 

Of  dear  Madame  Cancan.     She  was  excellent  pay, 
In  her  own  right  an  heiress,  —  a  plum  at  the  least,  — 
A  plantation  down  south  and  a  coal-mine  down  east,  — 
I  can't  state  the  sum  of  her  fortune  in  figures, 
But  I  know  she  had  plenty  of  dollars  and  niggers. 

She  was  petted  and  feted, 

And  splendidly  treated, 

Laj7  abed  when  she  chose,  and  her  school-teachers  cheated  ; 
Smuggled  candy  in  school ;  smoked  cigars,  and —  0,  fie! — 
Read  a  great  many  very  queer  books  on  the  sly. 
She  'd  a  love  affair,  too,  —  quite  a  sweet  episode,  — 
With  a  wonderful  foreign  young  Count,  who  abode 


126 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


Iii  the  opposite  dwelling,  —  a  Count  Cherami,  — 
A  charming  young  beau, 


Who  was  tres  comme  il  faut, 
And  who  was  with  our  boarding-school  Miss  Uen  pris. 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  127 

So  he  shot  letters  on  to  the  roof  with  an  arrow, 
And  thence  they  were  picked  by  a  provident  sparrow, 
An  amiable  housemaid,  who  thought  that  the  course 

Of  true  love  should  run  smooth, 

And  had  pity  on  youth,  — 
So,  sooner  than  leave  the  fond  pair  no  resource, 
Disinterestedly  brought  all  the  letters  to  Mary, 
At  a  dollar  apiece,  —  the  beneficent  fairy ! 

THE    BALL. 

'T  was  the  height  of  the  season,  the  spring-time  of  Brown, 

Who  sowed  invitations  all  over  the  town. 

Soirees  musicale,  tableaux,  matinees, 

Turned  days  into  nights,  and  the  nights  into  days ; 

And  women  went  mad  upon  feathers  and  flounces, 

And  scruples  gave  way  to  auriferous  ounces. 

Amanda  came  over  her  father  with  new  arts 

To  grant  her  a  credit  at  amiable  Stewart's, 

And  sulked  till  he  'd  promised  that,  if  she  'd  not  miff  any, 

He  'd  give  her  the  bracelet  she  wanted  from  Tiffany. 

As  a  matter  of  course, 

Young  New  York  was  in  force. 

Tight  boots  and  loose  coats, 

Stiff,  dog-collared  throats ; 

Champagne  under  chair, 

Drunk  with  dare-devil  air. 

Mr.  Brown's  light  brigade 

Was  in  splendor  arrayed. 

0,  that  season,  I  wot, 

Will  be  never  forgot ! 

For  't  was  then  that  young  Beelzebub,  proved  all  his  vigor 
Of  mind  by  inventing  a  wonderful  figure, 


128 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


To  be  danced  every  night  by  "  his  set "  in  that  million 
Of  marvellous  mazes,  —  the  German  cotillon. 


'T  was  the  height  of  the  winter.     The  poor  summer  flowers 
Were  forced  to  come  out  at  unreasonable  hours. 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.      ,  129 

Camellias,  amazed  at  the  frost  and  the  snow, 

Without  asking  their  leaves,  were  requested  to  blow ; 

And  gardeners,  relentless,  awaked  the  moss-roses 

From  slumbers  hybernant  to  tickle  the  noses 

Of  maidens  just  budding,  like  them,  out  of  season ; 

And  pale,  purple  violets,  sick  and  etiolate, 

Tried  in  vain  to  preserve  their  wan  blossoms  inviolate. 


In  short,  't  was  the  time  of  the  ball-giving  season, 
The  reign  of  low  dresses,  ice-creams,  and  unreason, 
And  the  greatest  event  of  the  night  —  not  the  day,  — 
Though  the  latter 's  the  phrase  the  most  proper  to  say, 
Was  the  bal  de  debut  of  Miss  Mary  Degai. 

What  a  ball  that  one  was  !     All  the  city  was  there. 
Brown  reigned  like  a  king  on  the  white  marble  stair, 
And  whistled  —  perhaps  't  was  to  drive  away  care  — 
Loud,  shrilly,  and  long,  to  each  carriage  and  pair 


130 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


As  it  landed  its  burden  of  feminine  fair. 
And  Kammerer,  hid  in  a  nice  little  lair 
Of  thick-tufted  laurels,  played  many  an  air, 


Soft  waltz,  wild  mazourka,  quick  polka,  slow  Schottische, 
With  all  those  quadrilles  called  by  Jullien  "  the  Scottish." 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  131 

Globed  lamps  shed  soft  light  over  shoulders  of  satin, 
While  men,  hat  in  hand,  —  fashion  d,  la  Manhattan,  — 
Talked  in  tones  that  were  muffled  in  sweet  modulation 
To  all  those  fair  flowers  of  a  fairer  creation, 
About  —  whether  the  play  or  the  ballet  were  properer  1 
Or  —  they  did  not  observe  them  last  night  at  the  opera. 

0  the  nooks  and  the  corners  —  the  secret  expansions  — 
That  are  found  in  the  depths  of  Fifth  Avenue  mansions  ! 
The  deeply-bayed  windows,  screened  off  by  camellias, 
Just  made  for  the  loves  of  the  Toms  and  Amelias ; 
The  dim  little  boudoir 
Where  nestles  — proh  pudor  !  — 

That  pair  of  young  doves,  in  the  deep  shadow  cooing,  — 
WThich  means,  in  plain  English,  legitimate  wooing. 
The  ancients,  I  know,  or  I  *ve  got  the  idea, 
Placed  love  in  some  spot  that  they  called  Cytherea,  — 
A  commonplace  garden,  with  nothing  but  sparrows 
To  shoot  at,  — and  that  would  be  wasting  love's  arrows,  — 
And  where,  if  he  sat  on  the  grass  with  his  Psyche, 
He  'd  probably  start  before  long  with,  "  0,  Criky ! 
There  's  a  bug  on  my — tunic  ! "     But  that  was  all  gam- 
mon. 

The  true  home  of  love  is  the  palace  of  mammon, 
Where  gardens  grow  up,  under  glass,  nice  and  neat, 
And  lovers  may  wander, 
And  ever  grow  fonder, 
Without  even  once  getting  wet  on  their  feet ! 

In  one  of  those  bowers,  remote  and  secluded, 
With  pale-blossomed  roses  ingeniously  wooded, 
Through  whose  light-scented  leaves  a  faint  music  stole  in, — 
Like  perfume  made  audible,  —  here  might  be  seen 


132  THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 

Tete-h-tete^  that  is,  close  as  't  was  proper  to  be, 
Miss  Mary  Degai  and  the  Count  Cherami. 


The  Count  was  exactly  the  man  for  sixteen, 

He  was  tall,  he  was  dark,  he  was  haughty  of  mien, 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  133 

He  had  beautiful  feet,  and  his  smile  was  serene ; 
Though  his  hair  might  have  needed  a  little  \vahpene, 
Still  what  he  had  left  was  of  glossiest  sheen ; 
His  age  —  let  me  see  —  well,  his  age  might  have  been 
Between  thirty  and  forty,  —  a  dangerous  age,  — 
All  the  passions  of  youth,  and  the  wit  of  the  sage. 
The  Count  was  an  exile,  —  a  matter  of  course,  — 
A  foreigner  here  has  no  other  resource ; 
The  Count  was  an  exile  for  reasons  political, 
Though  some  said  —  but  people  are  really  so  critical  — 
That  he  was  but  a  croupier  who  'd  made  a  good  swoop, 
And  had  tried  change  of  air  for  his  fit  of  the  croupe. 
And  't  was  true  that  his  eyes  had  a  villanous  flash,  — 
But  then  he  had  got  such  a  lovely  mustache, 
And  his  English  was  broken  to  exquisite  smash  ! 

There  he  sat  tete-ct-tete  with  Miss  Mary  Degai, 

Talking  low  in  her  ear,  in  his  Frenchified  way, 

Of  his  chateau  at  home,  and  the  balls  at  the  Tuileries, 

Longchamps,  and  Chantilly,  and  other  torn-fooleries, 

While  poor  Madison  Mowbray  —  a  rising  young  lawyer 

Who  promised,  his  friends  said,  to  be  a  top-sawyer  — 

Disconsolate  wandered  in  search  of  Miss  Mary,  — 

Seeking  here,  seeking  there,  that  invisible  fairy, 

Who  had  promised  her  hand  for  the  very  next  waltz, 

And  who  now  was  accused  as  the  falsest  of  false. 

0  Madison  Mowbray,  go  home  to  your  briefs,  — 

To  your  Chitty  and  Blackstone,  and  such  like  reliefs ! 

For  though   Mary   Degai    pledged    her    hand    for    the 

dance, 

And  though  Mr.  Degai  promised  it  in  advance 
To  your  keeping  forever,  you  '11  never  possess  it, 
Or  swear  at  the  altar  to  hold  and  caress  it ; 


134 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


For  while  you  are  moping  in  blankest  amazement, 
Two  black-shrouded  figures  slip  out  of  the  basement, 


•£Vfri?*3^ 

*m&*  " 

/ixn 


And  so  to  the  corner,  then  into  a  carriage,  — 
Which  looks  rather  like  an  elopement  and  marriage. 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


135 


But,  to  cut  matters  short,  of  the  whole  the  amount 
Is  that  Mary  Degai  has  run  off  with  the  Count. 


i 


DENOUEMENT. 

There  's  a  tenement-house  in  Mulberry  Street, 
Where  thieves,  and  beggars,  and  loafers  meet, 
A  house  whose  face  wears  a  leprous  taint 
Of  mouldy  plaster  and  peeling  paint. 
The  windows  are  dull  as  the  bleary  eyes 
Of  a  drunken  sot,  and  a  black  pool  lies 
Full  of  festering  garbage  outside  the  door. 
The  old  stairs  shudder  from  floor  to  floor, 
As  if  they  shrank  with  an  occult  dread 
From  the  frequent  criminal's  guilty  tread. 
And  blasphemous  women  and  drunken  men 
Inhabit  this  foul,  accursed  den, 


136  THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 

And  oaths  and  quarrels  disturb  the  night, 
And  ruffianly  faces  offend  the  light, 
And  wretches  that  dare  not  look  on  the  sun 
Burrow  within  till  the  day  is  done. 

Here,  in  a  room  on  the  highest  flat,  — 

The  playground  of  beetle  and  of  rat,  — 

Almost  roofless,  and  bare,  and  cold, 

With  the  damp  walls  reeking  with  slimy  mould, 

A  woman  hung  o'er  one  smouldering  ember 

That  lay  in  the  grate  —  it  was  in  December. 

0,  how  thin  she  was,  and  wan ! 

What  sunken  eyes  !  what  lips  thin  drawn  ! 

Her  mouth  how  it  quivered  ! 

Her  form  how  it  shivered  ! 
Her  teeth  how  they  chattered,  as  if  they  'd  cheat 

Each  skeleton  limb 

With  the  pantomime  grim 
Of  having  something  at  last  to  eat ! 

There  is  no  sight  more  awful,  say  I, 
To  look  upon,  whether  in  earth  or  sky, 
Than  the  terrible  glare  of  a  hungry  eye  ! 

The  woman  sat  over  the  smouldering  ember, 
Pinched  with  the  cold  of  that  bitter  December, 
Passing  her  hand  in  a  weariful  way 
O'er  the  faint  firelight's  flickering  spray, 
Till  might  be  seen  the  faint  red  ray 
Gleam  through  the  thin,  transparent  palm, 
As  one  beholds  the  sunshine  calm 
Through  a  painted  window  play. 
Who  that  beheld  her  in  sunnier  day, 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


137 


Lapped  in  roses  and  bathed  in  balm, 
Would  credit  that  this  was  Mary  Degai  ? 


But  where  was  the  money  in  stocks  and  in  rents? 

All  squandered  !    The  niggers  1    All  sold  !    The  per  cents? 


138  THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 

All  gone  !     The  magnificent  Count  Cherami 

Had  made  with  her  money  a  seven-years  spree 

In  Paris  and  London  :  had  known  figurantes, 

Played  at  poker  and  bluff  with  one-thousand-franc  antes, 

Bred  racers,  built  yachts,  and  in  seven  years'  time 

Neither  husband  nor  wife  had  as  much  as  a  dime. 

There  was  no  help  from  father.     The  old  man  was  dead, 

With  the  curse  unrevoked  that  he  'd  laid  on  her  head. 

No  help  from  her  husband.     A  Count  could  not  work 

And  slave  to  enrich  some  tyrannical  Turk. 

No  help  from  herself,  —  thanks  to  Madame  Cancan, 

She  had  not  a  notion  of  getting  along. 

Her  fingers  revolted  from  needle  and  thread, 

And  to  earn  a  loaf  were  by  far  too  well  bred. 

Too  proud  for  a  beggar,  too  thin  for  the  stage, 

She  lay  like  a  log  in  this  hard-working  age,  — 

The  dreary  result  of  a  fashion  fanatic, 

And  helplessly  starved  in  a  comfortless  attic. 

Hark !  a  step  on  the  stairs  !     How  her  thin  cheek  grows 

white 

As  she  cowers  away  with  a  shiver  of  fright. 
And  the  door  is  burst  open,  —  the  Count  staggers  in, 
With  a  hiccup  and  oath,  and  a  blasphemous  din. 
Mad  with  drink,  crazed  with  hunger,  and  weary  of  life, 
He  revenges  his  sins  on  the  head  of  his  wife. 
Let  us  hasten  the  door  of  that  garret  to  close 
On  the  nakedness,  poverty,  hunger,  and  woes,  — 
On  the  oaths,  on  the  shrieks,  on  the  cowardly  blows ! 

0  young  ladies  who  sigh  over  novels  in  yellow, 
And  think  Eugene  Sue  an  exceeding  smart  fellow, 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  139 

There  are  more  aims  in  life  than  a  crinoline  skirt, 
And  a  maid  may  be  charming  and  yet  not  a  flirt ; 
And  merit  is  better  than  title,  my  dears : 
In  this  country  we  've  no  occupation  for  peers 
Save  those  ones  that  our  beautiful  harbor  affords, 
And  those  piers  are  worth  more  than  the  whole  House  of 
Lords. 

And  though  money,  I  know, 

Is  voted  quite  slow 
In  circles  pretending  to  elegant  rank, 
There  's  no  very  great  sin  in  a  sum  at  the  bank. 
Nor  is  marriage  the  portal  to  idle  enjoyment : 
The  true  salt  of  life  is  an  active  employment. 
And  if  you  have  money  there  's  plenty  of  work 
In  the  back-slums  and  alleys,  where  starvingly  lurk 
Humanity's  outcasts,  'mid  want  and  disease,  — 
Broken  hearts  to  be  healed,  craving  wants  to  appease. 
Above  all,  ye  young  heroines,  take  this  amount 

Of  wholesome  advice, 

Which  like  curry  with  rice 

Gives  a  flavor,  and  saves  one  from  saying  things  twice. 
Be  this  axiom  forever  with  you  paramount : 
Don't  you  ever  advance  all  your  cash  on  a  Count. 


Madame  Cancan  still  lives,  and  still  ogles  and  teaches, 
And  still  her  lay  sermons  on  fashion  she  preaches ; 
Still  keeps  of  smooth  phrases  the  choicest  assortment  ; 
Still  lectures  on  dress,  easy  carriage,  deportment ; 
And  spends  all  her  skill  in  thus  moulding  her  pets 
Into  very-genteelly-got-up  marionettes. 
Yes  !  puppet 's  the  word ;  for  there  's  nothing  inside 
But  a  clock  work  of  vanity,  fashion,  and  pride ; 


140 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


Puppets  warranted  sound,  that  without  any  falter 
When  wound  up  will  go  — just  as  far  as  the  altar ; 


But  when  once  the  cap 's  donned  with  the  matronly  border, 
Lo  !  the  quiet  machine  goes  at  once  out  of  order. 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL.  141 

Ah  !  Madame  Cancan,  you  may  paint,  you  may  plaster 
Each  crevice  of  time  that  comes  faster  and  faster ; 
But  you  cannot  avert  that  black  day  of  disaster, 
When  in  turn  you  '11  be  summoned  yourself  by  a  Master ! 
You  may  speak  perfect  French,  and  Italian,  and  Spanish, 
And  know  how  to  enter  a  room  and  to  vanish, 
To  flirt  with  your  fan  quite  as  well  as  did  Soto, 
To  play  well-bred  games  from  ecart6  to  loto ; 
But  in  spite  of  all  this,  won't  you  look  rather  small 
When  you  're  called  up  before  the  great  Teacher  of  all  1 
False  teacher,  false  friend, — more,  false  speaker,  false  wife, 
Dare  you  stand  to  be  parsed  in  the  grammar  of  life  1 
What  account  will  you  give  of  the  many  pure  souls 
To  be  guided  by  you  through  the  quicksands  and  shoals 
That  beset  their  youth's  shore  1    Were  they  harbored  or 

wrecked  1 
You  did  n't  take  trouble  to  think,  I  expect ; 

For  each  cockle-shell  boat, 

When  you  set  it  afloat, 

Had  guitar-strings  for  ropes,  crinoline  for  a  sail,  — 
Nice  rigging  that  was  to  encounter  a  gale  1 

Ah !  Madame  Cancan,  our  great  Master  above, 

Who  instructs  us  in  charity,  virtue,  and  love, 

When  he  finds  you  deficient  in  all  of  your  lessons, 

A  deliberate  dunce  both  in  substance  and  essence, 

Will  send  you,  I  fear,  to  a  Finishing  School, 

Which  differs  from  yours  though,  in  being  less  cool, 

And  kept  on  the  corporal-punishment  rule. 

There  's  excellent  company  there  to  be  found  : 

The  uppermost  ranks  you  '11  see  floating  around ; 

Some  for  grinding  the  poor  are  placed  there  underground, — 

So  the  hind  has  his  justice  as  well  as  the  hound. 


142 


THE  FINISHING  SCHOOL. 


Nor  is  dress  much  less  thought  of  there  than  in  Manhattan, 
You  may  not  find  silks,  but  you  '11  surely  find  Satan ; 
And  I  doubt  if  you  '11  like  their  severe  education,  — 
There  's  lots  to  be  learned,  and  no  recreation, 
And  what 's  worse  is  —  you  'II  never  have  any  vacation. 


STOKIES. 


"  Pray  you  sit  by  its,  and  tell 's  a  tale." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


STORIES. 


THE    DIAMOND    LENS. 
I. 

THE   BENDING   OF   THE  TWIG. 

FROM  a  very  early  period  of  my  life  the  entire  bent  of 
my  inclinations  had  been  towards  microscopic  investiga- 
tions. When  I  was  not  more  than  ten  years  old,  a  distant 
relative  of  our  family,  hoping  to  astonish  my  inexpe- 
rience, constructed  a  simple  microscope  for  me,  by  drill- 
ing in  a  disk  of  copper  a  small  hole,  in  which  a  drop  of 
pure  water  was  sustained  by  capillary  attraction.  This^ 
very  primitive  apparatus,  magnifying  some  fifty  diame- 
tei-s,  presented,  it  is  true,  only  indistinct  and  imperfect 
forms,  but  still  sufficiently  wonderful  to  work  up  my  im- 
agination to  a  preternatural  state  of  excitement. 

Seeing  me  so  interested  in  this  rude  instrument,  my 
cousin  explained  to  me  all  that  he  knew  about  the  princi- 
ples of  the  microscope,  related  to  me  a  few  of  the  wonders 
which  had  been  accomplished  through  its  agency,  and 
ended  by  promising  to  send  me  one  regularly  constructed, 
immediately  on  his  return  to  the  city.  I  counted  the 
days,  the  hours,  the  minutes,  that  intervened  between 
that  promise  and  his  departure. 

Meantime  I  was  not  idle.     Every  transparent  substance 

rio 


146  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

that  bore  the  remotest  resemblance  to  a  lens  I  eagerly 
seized  upon,  and  employed  in  vain  attempts  to  realize  that 
instrument,  the  theory  of  whose  construction  I  as  yet 
only  vaguely  comprehended.  All  panes  of  glass  contain- 
ing those  oblate  spheroidal  knots  familiarly  known  as 
"  bull's-eyes"  were  ruthlessly  destroyed,  in  the  hope  of 
obtaining  lenses  of  marvellous  power.  I  even  went  so  far 
as  to  extract  the  crystalline  humor  from  the  eyes  of  fishes 
and  animals,  and  endeavored  to  press  it  into  the  micro- 
scopic service.  I  plead  guilty  to  having  stolen  the  glasses 
from  my  Aunt  Agatha's  spectacles,  with  a  dim  idea  of 
grinding  them  into  lenses  of  wondrous  magnifying  prop- 
erties, —  in  which  attempt  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say 
that  I  totally  failed. 

At  last  the  promised  instrument  came.  It  was  of  that 
order  known  as  Field's  simple  microscope,  and  had  cost 
perhaps  about  fifteen  dollars.  As  far  as  educational  pur- 
poses went,  a  better  apparatus  could  not  have  been  se- 
lected. Accompanying  it  was  a  small  treatise  on  the 
microscope,  —  its  history,  uses,  and  discoveries.  I  com- 
prehended then  for  the  first  time  the  "Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments."  The  dull  veil  of  ordinary  existence 
that  hung  across  the  world  seemed  suddenly  to  roll  away, 
and  to  lay  bare  a  land  of  enchantments.  I  felt  towards 
my  companions  as  the  seer  might  feel  towards  the  ordi- 
nary masses  of  men.  I  held  conversations  with  nature 
in  a  tongue  which  they  could  not  understand.  I  was  in 
daily  communication  with  living  wonders,  such  as  they 
never  imagined  in  their  wildest  visions.  I  penetrated  be- 
yond the  external  portal  of  things,  and  roamed  through 
the  sanctuaries.  Where  they  beheld  only  a  drop  of  rain 
slowly  rolling  down  the  window-glass,  I  saw  a  universe  of 
beings  animated  with  all  the  passions  common  to  physical 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  147 

life,  and  convulsing  their  minute  sphere  with  struggles  as 
fierce  and  protracted  as  those  of  men.  In  the  common 
spots  of  mould,  which  my  mother,  good  housekeeper  that 
she  was,  fiercely  scooped  away  from  her  jam  pots,  there 
abode  for  me,  under  the  name  of  mildew,  enchanted  gar- 
dens, filled  with  dells  and  avenues  of  the  densest  foliage 
and  most  astonishing  verdure,  while  from  the  fantastic 
boughs  of  these  microscopic  forests  hung  strange  fruits 
glittering  with  green,  and  silver,  and  gold. 

It  was  no  scientific  thirst  that  at  this  time  filled  my 
mind.  It  was  the  pure  enjoyment  of  a  poet  to  whom  a 
world  of  wonders  has  been  disclosed.  I  talked  of  my  soli- 
tary pleasures  to  none.  Alone  with  my  microscope,  I 
dimmed  my  sight,  day  after  day  and  night  after  night, 
poring  over  the  marvels  which  it  unfolded  to  me.  I  was 
like  one  who,  having  discovered  the  ancient  Eden  still 
existing  in  all  its  primitive  glory,  should  resolve  to  enjoy 
it  in  solitude,  and  never  betray  to  mortal  the  secret  of  its 
locality.  The  rod  of  my  life  was  bent  at  this  moment. 
I  destined  myself  to  be  a  microscopist. 

Of  course,  like  every  novice,  I  fancied  myself  a  dis- 
coverer. I  was  ignorant  at  the  time  of  the  thousands  of 
acute  intellects  engaged  in  the  same  pursuit  as  myself, 
and  with  the  advantage  of  instruments  a  thousand  times 
more  powerful  than  mine.  The  names  of  Leeuwenhoek, 
Williamson,  Spencer,  Ehrenberg,  Schultz,  Dujardin,  Schact, 
and  Schleiden  were  then  entirely  unknown  to  me,  or  if 
known,  I  was  ignorant  of  their  patient  and  wonderful  re- 
searches. In  every  fresh  specimen  of  cryptogamia  which 
I  placed  beneath  my  instrument  I  believed  that  I  discov- 
ered wonders  of  which  the  world  was  as  yet  ignorant.  I 
remember  well  the  thrill  of  delight  and  admiration  that 
shot  through  me  the  first  time  that  I  discovered  the  com- 


148  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

mon  wheel  animalcule  (Rotifer a  vulgaris)  expanding  and 
contracting  its  flexible  spokes,  and  seemingly  rotating 
through  the  water.  Alas  !  as  I  grew  older,  and  obtained 
some  works  treating  of  my  favorite  study,  I  found  that 
I  was  only  on  the  threshold  of  a  science  to  the  investiga- 
tion of  which  some  of  the  greatest  men  of  the  age  were 
devoting  their  lives  and  intellects. 

As  I  grew  up,  my  parents,  who  saw  but  little  likeli- 
hood of  anything  practical  resulting  from  the  examination 
of  bits  of  moss  and  drops  of  water  through  a  brass  tube 
and  a  piece  of  glass,  were  anxious  that  I  should  choose  a 
profession.  It  was  their  desire  that  I  should  enter  the 
counting-house  of  my  uncle,  Ethan  Blake,  a  prosperous 
merchant,  who  carried  on  business  in  New  York.  This 
suggestion  I  decisively  combated.  I  had  no  taste  for 
trade ;  I  should  only  make  a  failure  j  in  short,  I  refused 
to  become  a  merchant. 

But  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  select  some  pursuit. 
My  parents  were  staid  New  England  people,  who  insisted 
on  the  necessity  of  labor ;  and  therefore,  although,  thanks 
to  the  bequest  of  my  poor  Aunt  Agatha,  I  should,  on 
coming  of  age,  inherit  a  small  fortune  sufficient  to  place 
me  above  want,  it  was  decided  that,  instead  of  waiting 
for  this,  I  should  act  the  nobler  part,  and  employ  the  in- 
tervening years  in  rendering  myself  independent. 

After  much  cogitation  I  complied  with  the  wishes  of 
my  family,  and  selected  a  profession.  I  determined  to 
study  medicine  at  the  New  York  Academy.  This  dispo- 
sition of  my  future  suited  me.  A  removal  from  my  rela- 
tives would  enable  me  to  dispose  of  my  time  as  I  pleased 
without  fear  of  detection.  As  long  as  I  paid  my  Acad- 
emy fees,  I  might  shirk  attending  the  lectures  if  I  chose ; 
and,  as  I  never  had  the  remotest  intention  of  standing  an 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  149 

examination,  there  was  no  danger  of  my  being  "  plucked." 
Besides,  a  metropolis  was  the  place  for  me.  There  I  could 
obtain  excellent  instruments,  the  newest  publications,  inti- 
macy with  men  of  pursuits  kindred  with  my  own,  —  in 
short,  all  things  necessary  to  insure  a  profitable  devotion 
of  my  life  to  my  beloved  science.  I  had  an  abundance  of 
money,  few  desires  that  were  not  bounded  by  my  illumi- 
nating mirror  on  one  side  and  my  object-glass  on  the 
other ;  what,  therefore,  was  to  prevent  my  becoming  an 
illustrious  investigator  of  the  veiled  worlds  ]  It  was  with 
the  most  buoyant  hope  that  I  left  my  New  England 
home  and  established  myself  in  New  York. 


II. 

THE   LONGING   OF   A  MAN   OP   SCIENCE. 

MY  first  step,  of  course,  was  to  find  suitable  apartments. 
These  I  obtained,  after  a  couple  of  days'  search,  in  Fourth 
Avenue ;  a  very  pretty  second-floor  unfurnished,  contain- 
ing sitting-room,  bedroom,  and  a  smaller  apartment  which 
I  intended  to  fit  up  as  a  laboratory.  I  furnished  my 
lodgings  simply,  but  rather  elegantly,  and  then  devoted 
all  my  energies  to  the  adornment  of  the  temple  of  my 
worship.  I  visited  Pike,  the  celebrated  optician,  and 
passed  in  review  his  splendid  collection  of  microscopes,  — 
Field's  Compound,  Hinghain's,  Spencer's,  Nachet's  Binocu- 
lar, (that  founded  on  the  principles  of  the  stereoscope,) 
and  at  length  fixed  upon  that  form  known  as  Spencer's 
Trunnion  Microscope,  as  combining  the  greatest  number  of 
improvements  with  an  almost  perfect  freedom  from  tre- 
mor. Along  with  this  I  purchased  every  possible  accessory, 
—  draw-tubes,  micrometers,  a  camera-lucida,  lever-stage, 


150  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

achromatic  condensers,  white  cloud  illuminators,  prisms, 
parabolic  condensers,  polarizing  apparatus,  forceps,  aquatic 
boxes,  fishing-tubes,  with  a  host  of  other  articles,  all  of 
which  would  have  been  useful  in  the  hands  of  an  expe- 
rienced microscopist,  but,  as  I  afterwards  discovered,  were 
not  of  the  slightest  present  value  to  me.  It  takes  years 
of  practice  to  know  how  to  use  a  complicated  microscope. 
The  optician  looked  suspiciously  at  me  as  I  made  these 
wholesale  purchases.  He  evidently  was  uncertain  whether 
to  set  me  down  as  some  scientific  celebrity  or  a  madman. 
I  think  he  inclined  to  the -latter  belief.  I  suppose  I  was 
mad.  Every  great  genius  is  mad  upon  the  subject  in 
which  he  is  greatest.  The  unsuccessful  madman  is  dis- 
graced and  called  a  lunatic. 

Mad  or  not,  I  set  myself  to  work  with  a  zeal  which  few 
scientific  students  have  ever  equalled.  I  had  everything 
to  learn  relative  to  the  delicate  study  upon  which  I  had 
embarked,  —  a  study  involving  the  most  earnest  patience, 
the  most  rigid  analytic  powers,  the  steadiest  hand,  the 
most  untiring  eye,  the  most  refined  and  subtile  manipu- 
lation. 

For  a  long  time  half  my  apparatus  lay  inactively  on 
the  shelves  of  my  laboratory,  which  was  now  most  amply 
furnished  with  every  possible  contrivance  for  facilitating 
my  investigations.  The  fact  was  that  I  did  not  know 
how  to  use  some  of  my  scientific  implements,  —  never 
having  been  taught  microscopies, — and  those  whose  use  I 
understood  theoretically  were  of  little  avail,  until  by  prac- 
tice I  could  attain  the  necessary  delicacy  of  handling. 
Still,  such  was  the  fury  of  my  ambition,  such  the  untiring 
perseverance  of  my  experiments,  that,  difficult  of  credit 
as  it  may  be,  in  the  course  of  one  year  I  became  theoreti- 
cally and  practically  an  accomplished  microscopist. 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  151 

During  this  period  of  my  labors,  in  which  I  submitted 
specimens  of  every  substance  that  came  under  my  obser- 
vation to  the  action  of  my  lenses,  I  became  a  discoverer, 
—  in  a  small  way,  it  is  true,  for  I  was  very  young,  but 
still  a  discoverer.  It  was  I  who  destroyed  Ehrenberg's 
theory  that  the  Volvox  globator  was  an  animal,  and  proved 
that  his  "  monads '?  with  stomachs  and  eyes  were  merely 
phases  of  the  formation  of  a  vegetable  cell,  and  were,  when 
they  reached  their  mature  state,  incapable  of  the  act  of 
conjugation,  or  any  true  generative  act,  without  which  no 
organism  rising  to  any  stage  of  life  higher  than  vegetable 
can  be  said  to  be  complete.  It  was  I  who  resolved  the 
singular  problem  of  rotation  in  the  cells  and  hairs  of 
plants  into  ciliary  attraction,  in  spite  of  the  assertions  of 
Mr.  Wenham  and  others,  that  my  explanation  was  the 
result  of  an  optical  illusion. 

But  notwithstanding  these  discoveries,  laboriously  and 
painfully  made  as  they  were,  I  felt  horribly  dissatisfied. 
At  every  step  I  found  myself  stopped  by  the  imperfections 
of  my  instruments.  Like  all  active  microscopists,  I  gave 
my  imagination  full  play.  Indeed,  it  is  a  common  com- 
plaint against  many  such,  that  they  supply  the  defects  of 
their  instruments  with  the  creations  of  their  brains.  I 
imagined  depths  beyond  depths  in  nature  which  the  lim- 
ited power  of  my  lenses  prohibited  me  from  exploring.  I 
lay  awake  at  night  constructing  imaginary  microscopes 
of  immeasurable  power,  with  which  I  seemed  to  pierce 
through  all  the  envelopes  of  matter  down  to  its  original 
atom.  How  I  cursed  those  imperfect  mediums  which  ne- 
cessity through  ignorance  compelled  me  to  use  !  How  I 
longed  to  discover  the  secret  of  some  perfect  lens,  whose 
magnifying  power  should  be  limited  only  by  the  resolva- 
bility  of  the  object,  and  which  at  the  same  time  should 


152  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

be  free  from  spherical  and  chromatic  aberrations,  in  short 
from  all  the  obstacles  over  which  the  poor  microscopist 
finds  himself  continually  stumbling !  I  felt  convinced  that 
the  simple  microscope,  composed  of  a  single  lens  of  such 
vast  yet  perfect  power  was  possible  of  construction.  To 
attempt  to  bring  the  compound  microscope  up  to  such  a 
pitch  would  have  been  commencing  at  the  wrong  end; 
this  latter  being  simply  a  partially  successful  endeavor 
to  remedy  those  very  defects  of  the  simple  instrument, 
which,  if  conquered,  would  leave  nothing  to  be  desired. 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  mind  that  I  became  a  construct- 
ive microscopist.  After  another  year  passed  in  this  new 
pursuit,  experimenting  on  every  imaginable  substance,  — 
glass,  gems,  flints,  crystals,  artificial  crystals  formed  of 
the  alloy  of  varous  vitreous  materials,  —  in  short,  having 
constructed  as  many  varieties  of  lenses  as  Argus  had  eyes, 
I  found  myself  precisely  where  I  started,  with  nothing 
gained  save  an  extensive  knowledge  of  glass-making.  I 
was  almost  dead  with  despair.  My  parents  were  sur- 
prised at  my  apparent  want  of  progress  in  my  medical 
studies,  (I  had  not  attended  one  lecture  since  my  arrival 
in  the  city,)  and  the  expenses  of  my  mad  pursuit  had 
been  so  great  as  to  embarrass  me  very  seriously. 

I  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  one  day,  experimenting  in 
my  laboratory  on  a  small  diamond,  —  that  stone,  from  its 
great  refracting  power,  having  always  occupied  my  at- 
tention more  than  any  other,  —  when  a  young  Frenchman, 
who  lived  on  the  floor  above  me,  and  who  was  in  the 
habit  of  occasionally  visiting  me,  entered  the  room. 

I  think  that  Jules  Simon  was  a  Jew.  He  had  many 
traits  of  the  Hebrew  character :  a  love  of  jewelry,  of  dress, 
and  of  good  living.  There  was  something  mysterious 
about  him.  He  always  had  something  to  sell,  and  yet 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  153 

went  into  excellent  society.  When  I  say  sell,  I  should 
perhaps  have  said  peddle ;  for  his  operations  were  gener- 
ally confined  to  the  disposal  of  single  articles,  —  a  picture, 
for  instance,  or  a  rare  carving  in  ivory,  or  a  pair  of  duel- 
ling-pistols, or  the  dress  of  a  Mexican  caballero.  When  I 
was  first  furnishing  my  rooms,  he  paid  me  a  visit,  which 
ended  in  my  purchasing  an  antique  silver  lamp,  which  he 
assured  me  was  a  Cellini,  —  it  was  handsome  enough 
even  for  that,  —  and  some  other  knickknacks  for  my 
sitting-room.  Why  Simon  should  pursue  this  petty  trade 
I  never  could  imagine.  He  apparently  had  plenty  of 
money,  and  had  the  entree  of  the  best  houses  in  the  city, 
—  taking  care,  however,  I  suppose,  to  drive  no  bargains 
within  the  enchanted  circle  of  the  Upper  Ten.  I  came 
at  length  to  the  conclusion  that  this  peddling  was  but  a 
mask  to  cover  some  greater  object,  and  even  went  so  far 
as  to  believe  my  young  acquaintance  to  be  implicated  in 
the  slave-trade.  That,  however,  was  none  of  my  affair. 

On  the  present  occasion,  Simon  entered  my  room  in  a 
state  of  considerable  excitement. 

"  Ah !  mon  ami ! "  he  cried,  before  I  could  even  offer 
him  the  ordinary  salutation,  "  it  has  occurred  to  me  to 
be  the  witness  of  the  most  astonishing  things  in  the 
world.  I  promenade  myself  to  the  house  of  Madame 

How  does  the  little  animal  —  le  renard  —  name 

himself  in  the  Latin  ] " 

"  Vulpes,"  I  answered. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  —  Vulpes.  I  promenade  myself  to  the 
house  of  Madame  Vulpes." 

"  The  spirit  medium  1 " 

"  Yes,  the  great  medium.  Great  heavens !  what  a 
woman !  I  write  on  a  slip  of  paper  many  of  questions 
concerning  affairs  the  most  secret,  —  affairs  that  conceal 


154  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

themselves  in  the  abysses  of  my  heart  the  most  profound ; 
and  behold  !  by  example  !  what  occurs  1  This  devil  of  a 
woman  makes  me  replies  the  most  truthful  to  all  of  them. 
She  talks  to  me  of  things  that  I  do  not  love  to  talk  of  to 
myself.  What  am  I  to  think  1  I  am  fixed  to  the  earth !  " 

"  Am  I  to  understand  you,  M.  Simon,  that  this  Mrs. 
Vulpes  replied  to  questions  secretly  written  by  you,  which 
questions  related  to  events  known  only  to  yourself1?" 

"  Ah !  more  than  that,  more  than  that,"  he  answered, 
with  an  air  of  some  alarm.  "She  related  to  me  things  — 
But,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  and  suddenly  changing  his 
manner,  "why  occupy  ourselves  with  these  follies'?  It 
was  all  the  biology,  without  doubt.  It  goes  without  say- 
ing that  it  has  not  my  credence.  —  But  why  are  we  here, 
mon  ami  ?  It  has  occurred  to  me  to  discover  the  most 
beautiful  thing  as  you  can  imagine,  —  a  vase  with  green 
lizards  on  it,  composed  by  the  great  Bernard  Palissy.  It 
is  in  my  apartment ;  let  us  mount.  I  go  to  show  it  to 
you." 

I  followed  Simon  mechanically ;  but  my  thoughts  were 
far  from  Palissy  and  his  enamelled  ware,  although  I,  like 
him,  was  seeking  in  the  dark  a  great  discovery.  This 
casual  mention  of  the  spiritualist,  Madame  Vulpes,  set  me 
on  a  new  track.  What  if  this  spiritualism  should  be  re- 
ally a  great  fact  1  What  if,  through  communication  with 
more  subtile  organisms  than  my  own,  I  could  reach  at  a 
single  bound  the  goal,  which  perhaps  a  life  of  agonizing 
mental  toil  would  never  enable  me  to  attain  1 

While  purchasing  the  Palissy  vase  from  my  friend 
Simon,  I  was  mentally  arranging  a  visit  to  Madame 
Vulpes. 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  155 

III. 
THE    SPIRIT    OP    LEEUWENHOEK. 

Two  evenings  after  this,  thanks  to  an  arrangement  by 
letter  and  the  promise  of  an  ample  fee,  I  found  Madame 
Vulpes  awaiting  me  at  her  residence  alone.  She  was  a 
coarse-featured  woman,  with  keen  and  rather  cruel  dark 
eyes,  and  an  exceedingly  sensual  expression  about  her 
mouth  and  under  jaw.  She  received  me  in  perfect  silence, 
in  an  apartment  on  the  ground  floor,  very  sparely  fur- 
nished. In  the  centre  of  the  room,  close  to  where  Mrs. 
Vulpes  sat,  there  was  a  common  round  mahogany  ta- 
ble. If  I  had  come  for  the  purpose  of  sweeping  her 
chimney,  the  woman  could  not  have  looked  more  indif- 
ferent to  my  appearance.  There  was  no  attempt  to 
inspire  the  visitor  with  awe.  Everything  bore  a  sim- 
ple and  practical  aspect.  This  intercourse  with  the 
spiritual  world  was  evidently  as  familiar  an  occupation 
with  Mrs.  Vulpes  as  eating  her  dinner  or  riding  in  an 
omnibus. 

"  You  come  for  a  communication,  Mr.  Linley  ? "  said 
the  medium,  in  a  dry,  business-like  tone,  of  voice. 

"  By  appointment,  —  yes." 

"What  sort  of  communication  do  you  want]  —  a 
written  one  1 " 

11  Yes,  —  I  wish  for  a  written  one." 

"  From  any  particular  spirit  1 " 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  ever  known  this  spirit  on  this  earth  1 " 

"Never.  He  died  long  before  I  was  born.  I  wish 
merely  to  obtain  from  him  some  information  which  he 
ought  to  be  able  to  give  better  than  any  other." 


156  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

"  Will  you  seat  yourself  at  the  table,  Mr.  Liuley,"  said 
the  medium,  "and  place  your  hands  upon  it  ?" 

I  obeyed,  —  Mrs.  Vulpes  being  seated  opposite  to  me, 
with  her  hands  also  on  the  table.  We  remained  thus  for 
about  a  minute  and  a  half,  when  a  violent  succession  of 
raps  came  on  the  table,  on  the  back  of  my  chair,  on  the 
floor  immediately  under  my  feet,  and  even  on  the  window- 
panes.  Mrs.  Vulpes  smiled  composedly. 

"  They  are  very  strong  to-night,"  she  remarked.  "  You 
are  fortunate."  She  then  continued,  "Will  the  spirits 
communicate  with  this  gentleman  ? " 

Vigorous  affirmative. 

"  Will  the  particular  spirit  he  desires  to  speak  with 
communicate  1 " 

A  very  confused  rapping  followed  this  question. 

"  I  know  what  they  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Vulpes,  address- 
ing herself  to  me ;  "  they  wish  you  to  write  down  the 
name  of  the  particular  spirit  that  you  desire  to  converse 
with.  Is  that  so  1 "  she  added,  speaking  to  her  invisible 
guests. 

That  it  was  so  was  evident  from  the  numerous  affirma- 
tory  responses.  While  this  was  going  on,  I  tore  a  slip 
from  my  pocket-book,  and  scribbled  a  name,  under  the 
table. 

"Will  this  spirit  communicate  in  writing  with  this 
gentleman  ? "  asked  the  medium  once  more. 

After  a  moment's  pause,  her  hand  seemed  to  be  seized 
with  a  violent  tremor,  shaking  so  forcibly  that  the  table 
vibrated.  She  said  that  a  spirit  had  seized  her  hand  and 
would  write.  I  handed  her  some  sheets  of  paper  that 
were  on  the  table,  and  a  pencil.  The  latter  she  held 
loosely  in  her  hand,  which  presently  began  to  move  over 
the  paper  with  a  singular  and  seemingly  involuntary  mo- 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  157 

tion.  After  a  few  moments  had  elapsed,  she  handed 
me  the  paper,  on  which  I  found  written,  in  a  large,  un- 
cultivated hand,  the  words,  "He  is  not  here,  but  has 
been  sent  for."  A  pause  of  a  minute  or  so  now  ensued, 
during  which  Mrs.  Vulpes  remained  perfectly  silent,  but 
the  raps  continued  at  regular  intervals.  When  the  short 
period  I  mention  had  elapsed,  the  hand  of  the  medium 
was  again  seized  with  its  convulsive  tremor,  and  she 
wrote,  under  this  strange  influence,  a  few  words  on  the 
paper,  which  she  handed  to  me.  They  were  as  follows  :  — 

"  I  am  here.      Question  me. 

"  LEEUWEXHOEK." 

I  was  astounded.  The  name  was  identical  with  that  I 
had  written  beneath  the  table,  and  carefully  kept  con- 
cealed. Neither  was  it  at  all  probable  that  an  unculti- 
vated woman  like  Mrs.  Vulpes  should  know  even  the 
name  of  the  great  father  of  microscopies.  It  may  have 
been  biology  ;  but  this  theory  was  soon  doomed  to  be  de- 
stroyed. I  wrote  on  my  slip  —  still  concealing  it  from 
Mrs.  Vulpes — a  series  of  questions,  which,  to  avoid 
tediousness,  I  shall  place  with  the  responses,  in  the  order 
in  which  they  occurred  :  — 

I.  —  Can  the  microscope  be  brought  to  perfection  1 

SPIRIT.  —  Yes. 

I.  —  Am  I  destined  to  accomplish  this  great  task  ] 

SPIRIT.  —  You  are. 

I.  —  I  wish  to  know  how  to  proceed  to  attain  this  end. 
For  the  love  which  you  bear  to  science,  help  me  ! 

SPIRIT.  —  A  diamond  of  one  hundred  and  forty  carats, 
submitted  to  electro-magnetic  currents  for  a  long  period, 
will  experience  a  rearrangement  of  its  atoms  inter  sey  and 
from  that  stone  you  will  form  the  universal  lens. 


158  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

I.  —  Will  great  discoveries  result  from  the  use  of  such 
a  lens  1 

SPIRIT.  —  So  great  that  all  that  has  gone  before  is  as 
nothing. 

I.  —  But  the  refractive  power  of  the  diamond  is  so 
immense,  that  the  image  will  be  formed  within  the  lens. 
How  is  that  difficulty  to  be  surmounted  1 

SPIRIT.  —  Pierce  the  lens  through  its  axis,  and  the 
difficulty  is  obviated.  The  image  will  be  formed  in  the 
pierced  space,  which  will  itself  serve  as  a  tube  to  look 
through.  Now  I  am  called.  Good  night. 

I  cannot  at  all  describe  the  effect  that  these  extraordi- 
nary communications  had  upon  me.  I  felt  completely 
bewildered.  No  biological  theory  could  account  for  the 
discovery  of  the  lens.  The  medium  might,  by  means  of 
biological  rapport  with  my  mind,  have  gone  so  far  as  to 
read  my  questions,  and  reply  to  them  coherently.  But 
biology  could  not  enable  her  to  discover  that  magnetic 
currents  would  so  alter  the  crystals  of  the  diamond  as  to 
remedy  its  previous  defects,  and  admit  of  its  being  pol- 
ished into  a  perfect  lens.  Some  such  theory  may  have 
passed  through  my  head,  it  is  true  ;  but  if  so,  I  had  for- 
gotten it.  In  my  excited  condition  of  mind  there  was  no 
course  left  but  to  become  a  convert,  and  it  was  in  a  state 
of  the  most  painful  nervous  exaltation  that  I  left  the 
medium's  house  that  evening.  She  accompanied  me  to 
the  door,  hoping  that  I  was  satisfied.  The  raps  followed 
us  as  we  went  through  the  hall,  sounding  on  the  balusters, 
the  flooring,  and  even  the  lintels  of  the  door.  I  hastily 
expressed  my  satisfaction,  and  escaped  hurriedly  into  the 
cool  night  air.  I  walked  home  with  but  one  thought  pos- 
sessing me,  —  how  to  obtain  a  diamond  of  the  immense 
size  required.  My  entire  means  multiplied  a  hundred 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  159 

times  over  would  have  been  inadequate  to  its  purchase. 
Besides,  such  stones  are  rare,  and  become  historical.  I 
could  find  such  only  in  the  regalia  of  Eastern  or  European 
monarchs. 


IV. 

THE  EYE   OP   MORNING. 

THERE  was  a  light  in  Simon's  room  as  I  entered  my 
house.  A  vague  impulse  urged  me  to  visit  him.  As  I 
opened  the  door  of  his  sitting-room  unannounced,  he  was 
bending,  with  his  back  toward  me,  over  a  carcel  lamp, 
apparently  engaged  in  minutely  examining  some  object 
which  he  held  in  his  hands.  As  I  entered,  he  started 
suddenly,  thrust  his  hand  into  his  breast  pocket,  and 
turned  to  me  with  a  face  crimson  with  confusion. 

"  What ! "  I  cried,  "  poring  over  the  miniature  of  some 
fair  lady  ?  Well,  don't  blush  so  much ;  I  won't  ask  to 
see  it." 

Simon  laughed  awkwardly  enough,  but  made  none  of 
the  negative  protestations  usual  on  such  occasions.  He 
asked  me  to  take  a  seat. 

"  Simon,"  said  I,  "  I  have  just  come  from  Madame 
Vulpes." 

This  time  Simon  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  seemed 
stupefied,  as  if  a  sudden  electric  shock  had  smitten  him. 
He  babbled  some  incoherent  words,  and  went  hastily  to  a 
small  closet  where  he  usually  kept  his  liquors.  Although 
astonished  at  his  emotion,  I  was  too  preoccupied  with  my 
own  idea  to  pay  much  attention  to  anything  else. 

"  You  say  truly  when  you  call  Madame  Vulpes  a  devil 
of  a  woman,"  I  continued.  "  Simon,  she  told  me  wonder- 


160  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

ful  things  to-night,  or  rather  was  the  means  of  telling  me 
wonderful  things.  Ah  !  if  I  could  only  get  a  diamond 
that  weighed  one  hundred  and  forty  carats  !  " 

Scarcely  had  the  sigh  with  which  I  uttered  this  desire 
died  upon  my  lips,  when  Simon,  with  the  aspect  of  a  wild 
beast,  glared  at  me  savagely,  and,  rushing  to  the  mantel- 
piece, where  some  foreign  weapons  hung  on  the  wall, 
caught  up  a  Malay  creese,  and  brandished  it  furiously 
before  him. 

"  No  ! "  he  cried  in  French,  into  which  he  always  broke 
when  excited.  "  No !  you  shall  not  have  it !  You  are 
perfidious !  You  have  consulted  with  that  demon,  and 
desire  my  treasure  !  But  I  will  die  first  !  Me !  I  am 
brave  !  You  cannot  make  me  fear  !  " 

All  this,  uttered  in  a  loud  voice  trembling  with  ex- 
citement, astounded  me.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  I  had 
accidentally  trodden  upon  the  edges  of  Simon's  secret, 
whatever  it  was.  It  was  necessary  to  reassure  him. 

"  My  dear  Simon,"  I  said,  "  I  am  entirely  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  you  mean.  I  went  to  Madame  Vulpes  to 
consult  with  her  on  a  scientific  problem,  to  the  solution 
of  which  I  discovered  that  a  diamond  of  the  size  I  just 
mentioned  was  necessary.  You  were  never  alluded  to 
during  the  evening,  nor,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  even 
thought  of.  What  can  be  the  meaning  of  this  outburst  ? 
If  you  happen  to  have  a  set  of  valuable  diamonds  in  your 
possession,  you  need  fear  nothing  from  me.  The  diamond 
which  I  require  you  could  not  possess;  or,  if  you  did 
possess  it,  you  would  not  be  living  here." 

Something  in  my  tone  must  have  completely  reassured 
him  ;  for  his  expression  immediately  changed  to  a  sort  of 
constrained  merriment,  combined,  however,  with  a  certain 
suspicious  attention  to  my  movements.  He  laughed,  and 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  161 

said  that  I  must  bear  with  him ;  that  he  was  at  certain 
moments  subject  to  a  species  of  vertigo,  which  betrayed 
itself  in  incoherent  speeches,  and  that  the  attacks  passed 
off  as  rapidly  as  they  came.  He  put  his  weapon  aside 
while  making  this  explanation,  and  endeavored,  with  some 
success,  to  assume  a  more  cheerful  air. 

All  this  did  not  impose  on  me  in  the  least.  I  was  too 
much  accustomed  to  analytical  labors  to  be  baffled  by  so 
flimsy  a  veil.  I  determined  to  probe  the  mystery  to  the 
bottom. 

"  Simon,"  I  said,  gayly,  "  let  us  forget  all  this  over  a 
bottle  of  Burgundy.  I  have  a  case  of  Lausseure's  Clos 
Vougeot  down-stairs,  fragrant  with  the  odors  and  ruddy 
with  the  sunlight  of  the  Cote  d'Or.  Let  us  have  up  a 
couple  of  bottles.  What  say  you  1 " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answered  Simon,  smilingly. 

I  produced  the  wine  and  we  seated  ourselves  to  drink. 
It  was  of  a  famous  vintage,  that  of  1848,  a  year  when 
war  and  wine  throve  together,  —  and  its  pure  but  power- 
ful juice  seemed  to  impart  renewed  vitality  to  the  system. 
By  the  time  we  had  half  finished  the  second  bottle,  Si- 
mon's head,  which  I  knew  was  a  weak  one,  had  begun  to 
yield,  while  I  remained  calm  as  ever,  only  that  every 
draught  seemed  to  send  a  flush  of  vigor  through  my 
limbs.  Simon's  utterance  became  more  and  more  indis- 
tinct. He  took  to  singing  French  chansons  of  a  not  very 
moral  tendency.  I  rose  suddenly  from  the  table  just  at 
the  conclusion  of  one  of  those  incoherent  verses,  and,  fix- 
ing my  eyes  on  him  with  a  quiet  smile,  said :  "  Simon,  I 
have  deceived  you.  I  learned  your  secret  this  evening. 
You  may  as  well  be  frank  with  me.  Airs.  Vulpes,  or 
rather  one  of  her  spirits,  told  me  all." 

He  started  with  horror.  His  intoxication  seemed  for 
11 


162  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

the  moment  to  fade  away,  and  he  made  a  movement 
towards  the  weapon  that  he  had  a  short  time  before  laid 
down.  I  stopped  him  with  my  hand. 

"  Monster !  "  he  cried,  passionately,  "  I  am  ruined  ! 
What  shall  I  do  ?  You  shall  never  have  it !  I  swear  by 
my  mother ! " 

"  I  don't  want  it,"  I  said  ;  "  rest  secure,  but  be  frank 
with  me.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

The  drunkenness  began  to  return.  He  protested  with 
maudlin  earnestness  that  I  was  entirely  mistaken,  —  that 
I  was  intoxicated ;  then  asked  me  to  swear  eternal  secrecy, 
and  promised  to  disclose  the  mystery  to  me.  I  pledged 
myself,  of  course,  to  all.  With  an  uneasy  look  in  his  eyes, 
and  hands  unsteady  with  drink  and  nervousness,  he  drew 
a  small  case  from  his  breast  and  opened  it.  Heavens ! 
How  the  mild  lamp-light  was  shivered  into  a  thousand 
prismatic  arrows,  as  it  fell  upon  a  vast  rose-diamond  that 
glittered  in  the  case  !  I  was  no  judge  of  diamonds,  but 
I  saw  at  a  glance  that  this  was  a  gem  of  rare  size  and 
purity.  I  looked  at  Simon  with  wonder,  and  —  must  I 
confess  it]  —  with  envy.  How  could  he  have  obtained 
this  treasure  ?  In  reply  to  my  questions,  I  could  just 
gather  from  his  drunken  statements  (of  which,  I  fancy, 
half  the  incoherence  was  affected)  that  he  had  been  su- 
perintending a  gang  of  slaves  engaged  in  diamond-wash- 
ing in  Brazil ;  that  he  had  seen  one  of  them  secrete  a 
diamond,  but,  instead  of  informing  his  employers,  had 
quietly  watched  the  negro  until  he  saw  him  bury  his 
treasure ;  that  he  had  dug  it  up  and  fled  with  it,  but 
that  as  yet  he  was  afraid  to  attempt  to  dispose  of  it  pub- 
licly, —  so  valuable  a  gem  being  almost  certain  to  attract 
too  much  attention  to  its  owner's  antecedents,  —  and  he 
had  not  been  able  to  discover  any  of  those  obscure  chan- 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  163 

nels  by  which  such  matters  are  conveyed  away  safely. 
He  added,  that,  in  accordance  with  oriental  practice,  he 
had  named  his  diamond  with  the  fanciful  title  of  "  The 
Eye  of  Morning." 

While  Simon  was  relating  this  to  me,  I  regarded  the 
great  diamond  attentively.  Never  had  I  beheld  any- 
thing so  beautiful.  All  the  glories  of  light,  ever  ima- 
gined or  described,  seemed  to  pulsate  in  its  crystalline 
chambers.  Its  weight,  as  I  learned  from  Simon,  was 
exactly  one  hundred  and  forty  carats.  Here  was  an 
amazing  coincidence.  The  hand  of  destiny  seemed  in  it. 
On  the  very  evening  when  the  spirit  of  Leeuwenhoek 
communicates  to  me  the  great  secret  of  the  microscope, 
the  priceless  means  which  he  directs  me  to  employ  start 
up  within  my  easy  reach  !  I  determined,  with  the  most 
perfect  deliberation,  to  possess  myself  of  Simon's  diamond. 

I  sat  opposite  to  him  while  he  nodded  over  his  glass,  and 
calmly  revolved  the  whole  affair.  I  did  not  for  an  instant 
contemplate  so  foolish  an  act  as  a  common  theft,  which 
would  of  course  be  discovered,  or  at  least  necessitate  flight 
and  concealment,  all  of  which  must  interfere  with  my 
scientific  plans.  There  was  but  one  step  to  be  taken,  — 
to  kill  Simon.  After  all,  what  was  the  life  of  a  little  ped- 
dling Jew,  in  comparison  with  the  interests  of  science? 
Human  beings  are  taken  every  day  from  the  condemned 
prisons  to  be  experimented  on  by  surgeons.  This  man, 
Simon,  was  by  his  own  confession  a  criminal,  a  robber, 
and  I  believed  on  my  soul  a  murderer.  He  deserved 
death  quite  as  much  as  any  felon  condemned  by  the  laws  : 
why  should  I  not,  like  government,  contrive  that  his  pun- 
ishment should  contribute  to  the  progress  of  human 
knowledge  1 

The  means  for  accomplishing  everything  I  desired  lay 


164  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

• 

within  my  reach.  There  stood  upon  the  mantel-piece  a 
bottle  half  full  of  French  laudanum.  Simon  was  so  occu- 
pied with  his  diamond,  which  I  had  just  restored  to  him, 
that  it  was  an  affair  of  no  difficulty  to  drug  his  glass.  In 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  in  a  profound  sleep. 

I  now  opened  his  waistcoat,  took  the  diamond  from  the 
inner  pocket  in  which  he  had  placed  it,  and  removed  him 
to  the  bed,  on  which  I  laid  him  so  that  his  feet  hung 
down  over  the  edge.  I  had  possessed  myself  of  the  Ma- 
lay creese,  which  I  held  in  my  right  hand,  while  with  the 
other  I  discovered  as  accurately  as  I  could  by  pulsation 
the  exact  locality  of  the  heart.  It  was  essential  that  all 
the  aspects  of  his  death  should  lead  to  the  surmise  of  self- 
murder.  I  calculated  the  exact  angle  at  which  it  was 
probable  that  the  weapon,  if  levelled  by  Simon's  own 
hand,  would  enter  his  breast;  then  with  one  powerful 
blow  I  thrust  it  up  to  the  hilt  in  the  very  spot  which  I 
desired  to  penetrate.  A  convulsive  thrill  ran  through 
Simon's  limbs.  I  heard  a  smothered  sound  issue  from 
his  throat,  precisely  like  the  bursting  of  a  large  air-bub- 
ble, sent  up  by  a  diver,  when  it  reaches  the  surface  of 
the  water ;  he  turned  half  round  on  his  side,  and,  as  if  to 
assist  my  plans  more  effectually,  his  right  hand,  moved 
by  some  mere  spasmodic  impulse,  clasped  the  handle  of 
the  creese,  which  it  remained  holding  with  extraordinary 
muscular  tenacity.  Beyond  this  there  was  no  apparent 
struggle.  The  laudanum,  I  presume,  paralyzed  the  usual 
nervous  action.  He  must  have  died  instantly. 

There  was  yet  something  to  be  done.  To  make  it 
certain  that  all  suspicion  of  the  act  should  be  diverted 
from  any  inhabitant  of  the  house  to  Simon  himself,  it 
was  necessary  that  the  door  should  be  found  in  the 
morning  locked  on  the  inside.  How  to  do  this,  and  after- 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  165 

wards  escape  myself1?  Not  by  the  window  j  that  was  a 
physical  impossibility.  Besides,  I  was  determined  that 
the  windows  also  should  be  found  bolted.  The  solution 
was  simple  enough.  I  descended  softly  to  my  own  room 
for  a  peculiar  instrument  which  I  had  used  for  holding 
small  slippery  substances,  such  as  mmute  spheres  of  glass, 
etc.  This  instrument  was  nothing  more  than  a  long 
slender  hand-vice,  with  a  very  powerful  grip,  and  a  con- 
siderable leverage,  which  last  was  accidentally  owing  to 
the  shape  of  the  handle.  Nothing  was  simpler  than, 
when  the  key  was  in  the  lock,  to  seize  the  end  of  its  stem 
in  this  vice,  through  the  keyhole,*  from  the  outside,  and 
so  lock  the  door.  Previously,  however,  to  doing  this,  I 
burned  a  number  of  papers  on  Simon's  hearth.  Suicides 
almost  always  burn  papers  before  they  destroy  themselves. 
I  also  emptied  some  more  laudanum  into  Simon's  glass,  — 
having  first  removed  from  it  all  traces  of  wine,  —  cleaned 
the  other  wine-glass,  and  brought  the  bottles  away  with 
me.  If  traces  of  two  persons  drinking  had  been  found 
in  the  room,  the  question  naturally  would  have  arisen, 
Who  was  the  second'*  Besides,  the  wine-bottles  might 
have  been  identified  as  belonging  to  me.  The  laudanum 
I  poured  out  to  account  for  its  presence  in  his  stomach, 
in  case  of  a  post-mortem  examination.  The  theory  natu- 
rally would  be,  that  he  first  intended  to  poison  himself, 
but,  after  swallowing  a  little  of  the  drug,  was  either  dis- 
gusted with  its  taste,  or  changed  his  mind  from  other 
motives,  and  chose  the  dagger.  These  arrangements 
made,  I  walked  out,  leaving  the  gas  burning,  locked  the 
door  with  my  vice,  and  went  to  bed. 

Simon's  death  was  not  discovered  until  nearly  three  in 
the  afternoon.  The  servant,  astonished  at  seeing  the  gas 
burning,  —  the  light  streaming  on  the  dark  landing  from 


166  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

under  the  door,  —  peeped  through  the  keyhole  and  saw 
Simon  on  the  bed.  She  gave  the  alarm.  The  door  was 
burst  open,  and  the  neighborhood  was  in  a  fever  of  ex- 
citement. 

Every  one  in  the  house  was  arrested,  myself  included. 
There  was  an  inquest ;  but  no  clew  to  his  death  beyond 
that  of  suicide  could  be  obtained.  Curiously  enough,  he 
had  made  several  speeches  to  his  friends  the  preceding 
week,  that  seemed  to  point  to  self-destruction.  One  gen- 
tleman swore  that  Simon  had  said  in  his  presence  that 
"he  was  tired  of  life."  His  landlord  affirmed  that  Si- 
mon, when  paying  him  his  last  month's  rent,  remarked 
that  "he  should  not  pay  him  rent  much  longer."  All  the 
other  evidence  corresponded,  —  the  door  locked  inside, 
the  position  of  the  corpse,  the  burnt  papers.  As  I  anti- 
cipated, no  one  knew  of  the  possession  of  the  diamond  by 
Simon,  so  that  no  motive  was  suggested  for  his  murder. 
The  jury,  after  a  prolonged  examination,  brought  in  the 
usual  verdict,  and  the  neighborhood  once  more  settled 
down  into  its  accustomed  quiet. 


V. 

ANIMULA. 

THE  three  months  succeeding  Simon's  catastrophe  I 
devoted  night  and  day  to  my  diamond  lens.  I  had  con- 
structed a  vast  galvanic  battery,  composed  of  nearly  two 
thousand  pairs  of  plates,  —  a  higher  power  I  dared  not 
use,  lest  the  diamond  should  be  calcined.  By  means  of 
this  enormous  engine  I  was  enabled  to  send  a  powerful 
current  of  electricity  continually  through  my  great  dia- 
mond, which  it  seemed  to  me  gained  in  lustre  every  day. 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  167 

At  the  expiration  of  a  month  I  commenced  the  grinding 
and  polishing  of  the  lens,  a  work  of  intense  toil  and 
exquisite  delicacy.  The  great  density  of  the  stone,  and 
the  care  required  to  be  taken  with  the  curvatures  of  the 
surfaces  of  the  lens,  rendered  the  labor  the  severest  and 
most  harassing  that  I  had  yet  undergone. 

At  last  the  eventful  moment  came ;  the  lens  was  com- 
pleted. I  stood  trembling  on  the  threshold  of  new 
worlds.  I  had  the  realization  of  Alexander's  famous  wish 
before  me.  The  lens  lay  on  the  table,  ready  to-  be  placed 
upon  its  platform.  My  hand  fairly  shook  as  I  enveloped 
a  drop  of  water  with  a  thin  coating  of  oil  of  turpentine, 
preparatory  to  its  examination,  —  a  process  necessary  in 
order  to  prevent  the  rapid  evaporation  of  the  water.  I 
now  placed  the  drop  on  a  thin  slip  of  glass  under  the 
lens,  and  throwing  upon  it,  by  the  combined  aid  of  a 
prism  and  a  mirror,  a  powerful  stream  of  light,  I  ap- 
proached my  eye  to  the  minuta  hole  drilled  through  the 
axis  of  the  lens.  For  an  instant  I  saw  nothing  save  what 
seemed  to  be  an  illuminated  chaos,  a  vast  luminous  abyss. 
A  pure  white  light,  cloudless  and  serene,  and  seemingly 
limitless  as  space  itself,  was  my  first  impression.  Gently, 
and  with  the  greatest  care,  I  depressed  the  lens  a  few 
hair's-breadths.  The  wondrous  illumination  still  contin- 
ued, but  as  the  lens  approached  the  object  a  scene  of 
indescribable  beauty  was  unfolded  to  my  view. 

I  seemed  to  gaze  upon  a  vast  space,  the  limits  of  which 
extended  far  beyond  my  vision.  An  atmosphere  of  magi- 
cal luminousness  permeated  the  entire  field  of  view.  I 
was  amazed  to  see  no  trace  of  auimalculous  life.  Not  a 
living  thing,  apparently,  inhabited  that  dazzling  expanse. 
I  comprehended  instantly  that,  by  the  wondrous  power 
of  my  lens,  I  had  penetrated  beyond  the  grosser  particles 


168  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

of  aqueous  matter,  beyond  the  realms  of  infusoria  and 
protozoa,  down  to  the  original  gaseous  globule,  into  whose 
luminous  interior  I  was  gazing,  as  into  an  almost  bound- 
less dome  filled  with  a  supernatural  radiance. 

It  was,  however,  no  brilliant  void  into  which  I  looked. 
On  every  side  I  beheld  beautiful  inorganic  forms,  of  un- 
known texture,  and  colored  with  the  most  enchanting 
hues.  These  forms  presented  the  appearance  of  what 
might  be  called,  for  want  of  a  more  specific  definition, 
foliated  clouds  of  the  highest  rarity  ;  that  is,  they  undu- 
lated and  broke  into  vegetable  formations,  and  were  tinged 
with  splendors  compared  with  which  the  gilding  of  our 
autumn  woodlands  is  as  dross  compared  with  gold.  Far 
away  into  the  illimitable  distance  stretched  long  avenues 
of  these  gaseous  forests,  dimly  transparent,  and  painted 
with  prismatic  hues  of  unimaginable  brilliancy.  The 
pendent  branches  waved  along  the  fluid  glades  until 
every  vista  seemed  to  break  through  half-lucent  ranks  of 
many-colored  drooping  silken  pennons.  What  seemed  to 
be  either  fruits  or  flowers,  pied  with  a  thousand  hues, 
lustrous  and  ever  varying,  bubbled  from  the  crowns  of 
this  fairy  foliage.  No  hills,  no  lakes,  no  rivers,  no  forms 
animate  or  inanimate,  were  to  be  seen,  save  those  vast 
auroral  copses  that  floated  serenely  in  the  luminous  still- 
ness, with  leaves  and  fruits  and  flowers  gleaming  with 
unknown  fires,  unrealizable  by  mere  imagination. 

How  strange,  I  thought,  that  this  sphere  should  be  thus 
condemned  to  solitude  !  I  had  hoped,  at  least,  to  discover 
some  new  form  of  animal  life,  —  perhaps  of  a  lower  class 
than  any  with  which  we  are  at  present  acquainted,  but 
still,  some  living  organism.  I  found  my  newly  discovered 
world,  if  I  may  so  speak,  a  beautiful  chromatic  desert. 

While  I  was  speculating  on  the  singular  arrangements 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  169 

of  the  internal  economy  of  Nature,  with  which  she  so 
frequently  splinters  into  atoms  our  most  compact  theo- 
ries, I  thought  I  beheld  a  form  moving  slowly  through  the 
glades  of  one  of  the  prismatic  forests.  I  looked  more 
attentively,  and  found  that  I  was  not  mistaken.  Words 
cannot  depict  the  anxiety  with  which  I  awaited  the  nearer 
approach  of  this  mysterious  object.  Was  it  merely  some 
inanimate  substance,  held  in  suspense  in  the  attenuated 
atmosphere  of  the  globule  1  or  was  it  an  animal  endowed 
with  vitality  and  motion  ]  It  approached,  flitting  behind 
the  gauzy,  colored  veils  of  cloud-foliage,  for  seconds  dimly 
revealed,  then  vanishing.  At  last  the  violet  pennons  that 
trailed  nearest  to  me  vibrated  ;  they  were  gently  pushed 
aside,  and  the  form  floated  out  into  the  broad  light. 

It  was  a  female  human  shape.  When  I  say  human,  I 
mean  it  possessed  the  outlines  of  humanity,  —  but  there 
the  analogy  ends.  Its  adorable  beauty  lifted  it  illimita- 
ble heights  beyond  the  loveliest  daughter  of  Adam. 

I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  attempt  to  inventory  the  charms 
of  this  divine  revelation  of  perfect  beauty.  Those  eyes 
of  mystic  violet,  dewy  and  serene,  evade  my  words.  Her 
long,  lustrous  hair  following  her  glorious  head  in  a  golden 
wake,  like  the  track  sown  in  heaven  by  a  falling  star, 
seems  to  quench  my  most  burning  phrases  with  its  splen- 
dors. If  all  the  bees  of  Hybla  nestled  upon  my  lips, 
they  would  still  sing  but  hoarsely  the  wondrous  harmo- 
nies of  outline  that  enclosed  her  form. 

She  swept  out  from  between  the  rainbow-curtains  of 
the  cloud-trees  into  the  broad  sea  of  light  that  lay  beyond. 
Her  motions  were  those  of  some  graceful  naiad,  cleaving, 
by  a  mere  effort  of  her  will,  the  clear,  unruffled  waters 
that  fill  the  chambers  of  the  sea.  She  floated  forth  with 
the  serene  grace  of  a  frail  bubble  ascending  through  the 


170  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

still  atmosphere  of  a  June  day.  The  perfect  roundness 
of  her  limbs  formed  suave  and  enchanting  curves.  It 
•was  like  listening  to  the  most  spiritual  symphony  of 
Beethoven  the  divine,  to  watch  the  harmonious  flow  of 
lines.  This,  indeed,  was  a  pleasure  cheaply  purchased 
at  any  price.  What  cared  I,  if  I  had  waded  to  the  portal 
of  this  wonder  through  another's  blood  1  I  would  have 
given  my  own  to  enjoy  one  such  moment  of  intoxication 
and  delight. 

Breathless  with  gazing  on  this  lovely  wonder,  and  for- 
getful for  an  instant  of  everything  save  her  presence,  I 
withdrew  my  eye  from  the  microscope  eagerly,  —  alas ! 
As  my  gaze  fell  on  the  thin  slide  that  lay  beneath  my 
instrument,  the  bright  light  from  mirror  and  from  prism 
sparkled  on  a  colorless  drop  of  water !  There,  in  that 
tiny  bead  of  dew,  this  beautiful  being  was  forever  impris- 
oned. The  planet  Neptune  was  not  more  distant  from 
me  than  she.  I  hastened  once  more  to  apply  my  eye  to 
the  microscope. 

Animula  (let  me  now  call  her  by  that  dear  name  which 
I  subsequently  bestowed  on  her)  had  changed  her  posi- 
tion. She  had  again  approached  the  wondrous  forest, 
and  was  gazing  earnestly  upwards.  Presently  one  of  the 
trees  —  as  I  must  call  them  —  unfolded  a  long  ciliary  pro- 
cess, with  which  it  seized  one  of  the  gleaming  fruits  that 
glittered  on  its  summit,  and,  sweeping  slowly  down,  held 
it  within  reach  of  Animula.  The  sylph  took  it  in  her 
delicate  hand  and  began  to  eat.  My  attention  was  so  en- 
tirely absorbed  by  her,  that  I  could  not  apply  myself  to 
the  task  of  determining  whether  this  singular  plant  was 
or  was  not  instinct  with  volition. 

I  watched  her,  as  she  made  her  repast,  with  the  most 
profound  attention.  The  suppleness  of  her  motions  sent 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  171 

a  thrill  of  delight  through  my  frame  ;  my  heart  beat 
madly  as  she  turned  her  beautiful  eyes  in  the  direction  of 
the  spot  in  which  I  stood.  What  would  I  not  have  given 
to  have  had  the  power  to  precipitate  myself  into  that 
luminous  ocean,  and  float  with  her  through  those  groves 
of  purple  and  gold  !  While  I  was  thus  breathlessly  fol- 
lowing her  every  movement,  she  suddenly  started,  seemed 
to  listen  for  a  moment,  and  then  cleaving  the  brilliant 
ether  in  which  she  was  floating,  like  a  flash  of  light, 
pierted  through  the  opaline  forest,  and  disappeared. 

Instantly  a  series  of  the  most  singular  sensations  at- 
tacked me.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  suddenly  gone  blind. 
The  luminous  sphere  was  still  before  me,  but  my  daylight 
had  vanished.  What  caused  this  sudden  disappearence  1 
Had  she  a  lover  or  a  husband  ]  Yes,  that  was  the  solu- 
tion !  Some  signal  from  a  happy  fellow-being  had  vibrated 
through  the  avenues  of  the  forest,  and  she  had  obeyed 
the  summons. 

The  agony  of  my  sensations,  as  I  arrived  at  this  con- 
clusion, startled  me.  I  tried  to  reject  the  conviction  that 
my  reason  forced  upon  me.  I  battled  against  the  fatal 
conclusion,  —  but  in  vain.  It  was  so.  I  had  no  escape 
from  it.  I  loved  an  animalcule  ! 

It  is  true  that,  thanks  to  the  marvellous  power  of  my 
microscope,  she  appeared  of  human  proportions.  Instead 
of  presenting  the  revolting  aspect  of  the  coarser  creatures, 
that  live  and  struggle  and  die,  in  the  more  easily  resolv- 
able portions  of  the  water-drop,  she  was  fair  and  delicate 
and  of  surpassing  beauty.  But  of  what  account  was  all 
that  I  Every  time  that  my  eye  was  withdrawn  from  the 
instrument,  it  fell  on  a  miserable  drop  of  water,  within 
which,  I  must  be  content  to  know,  dwelt  all  that  could 
make  my  life  lovely. 


172  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

Could  she  but  see  me  once  !  Could  I  for  one  moment 
pierce  the  mystical  walls  that  so  inexorably  rose  to  sep- 
arate us,  and  whisper  all  that  filled  rny  soul,  I  might 
consent  to  be  satisfied  for  the  rest  of  my  life  with  the 
knowledge  of  her  remote  sympathy.  It  would  be  some- 
thing to  have  established  even  the  faintest  personal  link 
to  bind  us  together,  —  to  know  that  at  times,  when  roam- 
ing through  those  enchanted  glades,  she  might  think  of 
the  wonderful  stranger,  who  had  broken  the  monotony  of 
her  life  with  his  presence,  and  left  a  gentle  memory  in 
her  heart ! 

But  it  could  not  be.  No  invention  of  which  human 
intellect  was  capable  could  break  down  the  barriers  that 
nature  had  erected.  I  might  feast  my  soul  upon  her 
wondrous  beauty,  yet  she  must  always  remain  ignorant 
of  the  adoring  eyes  that  day  and  night  gazed  upon  her, 
and,  even  when  closed,  beheld  her  in  dreams.  With  a 
bitter  cry  of  anguish  I  fled  from  the  room,  and,  flinging 
myself  on  my  bed,  sobbed  myself  to  sleep  like  a  child. 


VI. 
THE   SPILLING   OP   THE   CUP. 

I  AROSE  the  next  morning  almost  at  daybreak,  and 
rushed  to  my  microscope.  I  trembled  as  I  sought  the 
luminous  world  in  miniature  that  contained  my  all.  Ani- 
mula  was  there.  I  had  left  the  gas-lamp,  surrounded  by 
its  moderators,  burning,  when  I  went  to  bed  the  night 
before.  I  found  the  sylph  bathing,  as  it  were,  with  an 
expression  of  pleasure  animating  her  features,  in  the  bril- 
liant light  which  surrounded  her.  She  tossed  her  lustrous 
golden  hair  over  her  shoulders  with  innocent  coquetry. 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  173 

She  lay  at  full  length  in  the  transparent  medium,  in 
which  she  supported  herself  with  ease,  and  gambolled 
with  the  enchanting  grace  that  the  nymph  Salmncis 
might  have  exhibited  when  she  sought  to  conquer  the 
modest  Hermaphroditus.  I  tried  an  experiment  to  sat- 
isfy myself  if  her  powers  of  reflection  were  developed.  I 
lessened  the  lamp-light  considerably.  By  the  dim  light 
that  remained,  I  could  see  an  expression  of  pain  flit  across 
her  face.  She  looked  upward  suddenly,  and  her  brows 
contracted.  I  flooded  the  stage  of  the  microscope  again 
with  a  full  stream  of  light,  and  her  whole  expression 
changed.  She  sprang  forward  like  some  substance  de- 
prived of  all  weight.  Her  eyes  sparkled  and  her  lips 
moved.  Ah !  if  science  had  only  the  means  of  conduct- 
ing and  reduplicating  sounds,  as  it  does  the  rays  of  light, 
what  carols  of  happiness  would  then  have  entranced  my 
ears  !  what  jubilant  hymns  to  Adonaiis  would  have  thrilled 
the  illumined  air ! 

I  now  comprehended  how  it  was  that  the  Count  de  Ga- 
balis  peopled  his  mystic  world  with  sylphs,  —  beautiful 
beings  whose  breath  of  life  was  lambent  fire,  and  who 
sported  forever  in  regions  of  purest  ether  and  purest  light. 
The  Rosicrucian  had  anticipated  the  wonder  that  I  had 
practically  realized. 

How  long  this  worship  of  my  strange  divinity  went  on 
thus  I  scarcely  know.  I  lost  all  note  of  time.  All  day 
from  early  dawn,  and  far  into  the  night,  I  was  to  be 
found  peering  through  that  wonderful  lens.  I  saw  no 
one,  went  nowhere,  and  scarce  allowed  myself  sufficient 
time  for  my  meals.  My  whole  life  was  absorbed  in  con- 
templation as  rapt  as  that  of  any  of  the  Romish  saints. 
Every  hour  that  I  gazed  upon  the  divine  form  strength- 
ened my  passion,  —  a  passion  that  was  always  overshad- 


174  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

owed  by  the  maddening  conviction,  that,  although  I  could 
gaze  on  her  at  will,  she  never,  never  could  behold  me! 

At  length,  I  grew  so  pale  and  emaciated,  from  want  of 
rest,  and  continual  brooding  over  my  insane  love  and  its 
cruel  conditions,  that  I  determined  to  make  some  effort 
to  wean  myself  from  it.  "  Come,"  I  said,  "  this  is  at  best 
but  a  fantasy.  Your  imagination  has  bestowed  on  Ani- 
mula  charms  which  in  reality  she  does  not  possess.  Se- 
clusion from  female  society  has  produced  this  morbid 
condition  of  mind.  Compare  her  with  the  beautiful  wo- 
men of  your  own  world,  and  this  false  enchantment  will 
vanish." 

I  looked  over  the  newspapers  by  chance.  There  I 
beheld  the  advertisement  of  a  celebrated  danseuse  who 
appeared  nightly  at  Niblo's.  The  Signoriua  Caradolce 
had  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  beautiful  as  well  as 
the  most  graceful  woman  in  the  world.  I  instantly 
dressed  and  went  to  the  theatre. 

The  curtain  drew  up.  The  usual  semicircle  of  fairies 
in  white  muslin  were  standing  on  the  right  toe  around 
the  enamelled  flower-bank,  of  green  canvas,  on  which  the 
belated  prince  was  sleeping.  Suddenly  a  flute  is  heard. 
The  fairies  start.  The  trees  open,  the  fairies  all  stand 
on  the  left  toe,  and  the  queen  enters.  It  was  the  Signo- 
rina.  She  bounded  forward  amid  thunders  of  applause, 
and,  lighting  on  one  foot,  remained  poised  in  air.  Heav- 
ens! was  this  the  great  enchantress  that  had  drawn  mon- 
archs  at  her  chariot-wheels?  Those  heavy  muscular 
limbs,  those  thick  ankles,  those  cavernous  eyes,  that  stere- 
otyped smile,  those  crudely  painted  cheeks!  Where  were 
the  vermeil  blooms,  the  liquid  expressive  eyes,  the  har- 
monious limbs  of  Animula? 

The  Signorina  danced.     "What  gross,  discordant  move- 


THE  DIAMOND  LENS.  175 

ments  !  The  play  of  her  limbs  was  all  false  and  artificial. 
Her  bounds  were  painful  athletic  efforts ;  her  poses  were 
angular  and  distressed  the  eye.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer ; 
with  an  exclamation  of  disgust  that  drew  every  eye  upon 
me,  I  rose  from  my  seat  in  the  very  middle  of  the  Signo- 
rina's  pas-de-fascination,  and  abruptly  quitted  the  house. 

I  hastened  home  to  feast  my  eyes  once  more  on  the 
lovely  form  of  my  sylph.  I  felt  that  henceforth  to  com- 
bat this  passion  would  be  impossible.  I  applied  my  eye 
to  the  lens.  Animula  was  there,  — but  what  could  have 
happened  1  Some  terrible  change  seemed  to  have  taken 
place  during  my  absence.  Some  secret  grief  seemed  to 
cloud  the  lovely  features  of  her  I  gazed  upon.  Her  face 
had  grown  thin  and  haggard ;  her  limbs  trailed  heavily ; 
the  wondrous  lustre  of  her  golden  hair  had  faded.  She 
was  ill !  —  ill,  and  I  could  not  assist  her !  I  believe  at 
that  moment  I  would  have  gladly  forfeited  all  claims  to 
my  human  birthright,  if  I  could  only  have  been  dwarfed 
to  the  size  of  an  animalcule,  and  permitted  to  console  her 
from  whom  fate  had  forever  divided  me. 

I  racked  my  brain  for  the  solution  of  this  mystery. 
What  was  it  that  afflicted  the  sylph]  She  seemed  to  suf- 
fer intense  pain.  Her  features  contracted,  and  she  even 
writhed,  as  if  with  some  internal  agony.  The  wondrous 
forests  appeared  also  to  have  lost  half  their  beauty.  Their 
hues  were  dim  and  in  some  places  faded  away  altogether. 
I  watched  Animula  for  hours  with  a  breaking  heart,  and 
she  seemed  absolutely  to  wither  away  under  my  very  eye. 
Suddenly  I  remembered  that  I  had  not  looked  at  the 
water-drop  for  several  days.  In  fact,  I  hated  to  see  it ; 
for  it  reminded  me  of  the  natural  barrier  between  Ani- 
mula and  myself.  I  hurriedly  looked  down  on  the  stage 
of  the  microscope.  The  slide  was  still  there,  —  but,  great 


176  THE  DIAMOND  LENS. 

heavens  !  the  water-drop  had  vanished  !  The  awful  truth 
burst  upon  me;  it  had  evaporated,  until  it  had  become 
so  minute  as  to  be  invisible  to  the  naked  eye ;  I  had  been 
gazing  on  its  last  atom,  the  one  that  contained  Animula, 
—  and  she  was  dying  ! 

I  rushed  again  to  the  front  of  the  lens,  and  looked 
through.  Alas!  the  last  agony  had  seized  her.  The 
rainbow-hued  forests  had  all  melted  away,  and  Animula 
lay  struggling  feebly  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  spot  of  dim 
light.  Ah  !  the  sight  was  horrible  :  the  limbs  once  so 
round  and  lovely  shrivelling  up  into  nothings ;  the  eyes  — 
those  eyes  that  shone  like  heaven  —  being  quenched  into 
black  dust ;  the  lustrous  golden  hair  now  lank  and  dis- 
colored. The  last  throe  came.  I  beheld  that  final  strug- 
gle of  the  blackening  form  —  and  I  fainted. 

When  I  awoke  out  of  a  trance  of  many  hours,  I  found 
myself  lying  amid  the  wreck  of  my  instrument,  myself  as 
shattered  in  mind  and  body  as  it.  I  crawled  feebly  to 
my  bed,  from  which  I  did  not  rise  for  months. 

They  say  now  that  I  am  mad ;  but  they  are  mistaken. 
I  am  poor,  for  I  have  neither  the  heart  nor  the  will  to 
work;  all  my  money  is  spent,  and  I  live  on  charity. 
Young  men's  associations  that  love  a  joke  invite  me  to 
lecture  on  Optics  before  them,  for  which  they  pay  me, 
and  laugh  at  me  while  I  lecture.  "  Linley,  the  mad 
microscopist,"  is  the  name  I  go  by.  I  suppose  that  I 
talk  incoherently  while  I  lecture.  Who  could  talk  sense 
when  his  brain  is  haunted  by  such  ghastly  memories, 
while  ever  and  anon  among  the  shapes  of  death  I  behold 
the  radiant  form  of  my  lost  Animula  ! 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  177 


THE  WOKDEESMITH. 


GOLOSH  STREET  AND  ITS  PEOPLE. 

A  SMALL  lane,  the  name  of  which  I  have  forgotten,  or 
do  not  choose  to  remember,  slants  suddenly  off  from 
Chatham  Street,  (before  that  headlong  thoroughfare 
rushes  into  the  Park,)  and  retreats  suddenly  down  to- 
wards the  East  River,  as  if  it  were  disgusted  with  the 
smell  of  old  clothes,  and  had  determined  to  wash  itself 
clean.  This  excellent  intention  it  has,  however,  evidently 
contributed  towards  the  making  of  that  imaginary  pave- 
ment mentioned  in  the  old  adage ;  for  it  is  still  emphati- 
cally a  dirty  street.  It  has  never  been  able  to  shake  off 
the  Hebraic  taint  of  filth  which  it  inherits  from  the  an- 
cestral thoroughfare.  It  is  slushy  and  greasy,  as  if  it 
were  twin  brother  of  the  Roman  Ghetto. 

I  like  a  dirty  slum ;  not  because  I  am  naturally  un- 
clean,—  I  have  not  a  drop  of  Neapolitan  blood  in  my 
veins,  —  but  because  I  generally  find  a  certain  sediment 
of  philosophy  precipitated  in  its  gutters.  A  clean  street 
is  terribly  prosaic.  There  is  no  food  for  thought  in  care- 
fully swept  pavements,  barren  kennels,  and  vulgarly  spot- 
less houses.  But  when  I  go  down  a  street  which  has 
been  left  so  long  to  itself  that  it  has  acquired  a  distinct 
outward  character,  I  find  plenty  to  think  about.  The 
scraps  of  sodden  letters  lying  in  the  ash-barrel  have  their 

12 


178  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

meaning :  desperate  appeals,  perhaps,  from  Tom,  the 
baker's  assistant,  to  Amelia,  the  daughter  of  the  dry-goods 
retailer,  who  is  always  selling  at  a  sacrifice  in  consequence 
of  the  late  fire.  That  may  be  Tom  himself  who  is  now 
passing  me  in  a  white  apron,  and  I  look  up  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  house  (which  does  not,  however,  give  any 
signs  of  a  recent  conflagration)  and  almost  hope  to  see 
Amelia  wave  a  white  pocket-handkerchief.  The  bit  of 
orange-peel  lying  on  the  sidewalk  inspires  thought.  Who 
will  fall  over  it  1  who  but  the  industrious  mother  of  six 
children,  the  youngest  of  which  is  only  nine  months  old, 
all  of  whom  are  dependent  on  her  exertions  for  support  1 
I  see  her  slip  and  tumble.  I  see  the  pale  face  convulsed 
with  agony,  and  the  vain  struggle  to  get  up ;  the  pitying 
crowd  closing  her  off  from  all  air;  the  anxious  young 
doctor  who  happened  to  be  passing  by ;  the  manipulation 
of  the  broken  limb,  the  shake  of  the  head,  the  moan  of 
the  victim,  the  litter  borne  on  men's  shoulders,  the  gates 
of  the  New  York  Hospital  unclosing,  the  subscription 
taken  up  on  the  spot.  There  is  some  food  for  speculation 
in  that  three-year-old,  tattered  child,  masked  with  dirt, 
who  is  throwing  a  brick  at  another  three-year-old,  tat- 
tered child,  masked  with  dirt.  It  is  not  difficult  to  per- 
ceive that  he  is  destined  to  lurk,  as  it  were,  through  life. 
His  bad,  flat  face  —  or,  at  least,  .what  can  be  seen  of  it  — 
does  not  look  as  if  it  were  made  for  the  light  of  day.  The 
mire  in  which  he  wallows  now  is  but  a  type  of  the  moral 
mire  in  which  he  will  wallow  hereafter.  The  feeble  little 
hand  lifted  at  this  instant  to  smite  his  companion,  half 
in  earnest,  half  in  jest,  will  be  raised  against  his  fellow- 
beings  forevermore. 

Golosh  Street  —  as  I  will  call  this  nameless  lane  before 
alluded  to  —  is  an  interesting  locality.     All  the  oddities 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  179 

of  trade  seemed  to  have  found  their  way  thither  and 
made  an  eccentric  mercantile  settlement.  There  is  a 
bird-shop  at  one  corner  wainscoted  with  little  cages  con- 
taining linnets,  waxwings,  canaries,  blackbirds,  Mino- 
birds,  with  a  hundred  other  varieties,  known  only  to 
naturalists.  Immediately  opposite  is  an  establishment 
where  they  sell  nothing  but  ornaments  made  out  of  the 
tinted  leaves  of  autumn,  varnished  and  gummed  into  va- 
rious forms.  Further  down  is  a  second-hand  book-stall, 
which  looks  like  a  sentry-box  mangled  out  flat,  and  which 
is  remarkable  for  not  containing  a  complete  set  of  any 
work.  There  is  a  small  chink  between  two  ordinary-sized 
houses,  in  which  a  little  Frenchman  makes  and  sells  arti- 
ficial eyes,  specimens  of  which,  ranged  on  a  black  velvet 
cushion,  stare  at  you  unwinkingly  through  the  window 
as  you  pass,  until  you  shudder  and  hurry  on,  thinking 
how  awful  the  world  would  be  if  every  one  went  about 
without  eyelids.  There  are  junk-shops  in  Golosh  Street 
that  seem  to  have  got  hold  of  all  the  old  nails  in  the  ark 
and  all  the  old  brass  of  Corinth.  Madame  Filomel,  the 
fortune-teller,  lives  at  No.  12  Golosh  Street,  second  story 
front,  pull  the  bell  on  the  left-hand  side.  Next  door  to 
Madame  is  the  shop  of  Herr  Hippe,  commonly  called  the 
AVondersmith. 

Herr  Hippe's  shop  is  the  largest  in  Golosh  Street,  and 
to  all  appearance  is  furnished  with  the  smallest  stock. 
Beyond  a  few  packing-cases,  a  turner's  lathe,  and  a  shelf 
laden  with  dissected  maps  of  Europe,  the  interior  of  the 
shop  is  entirely  unfurnished.  The  window,  which  is  lofty 
and  wide,  but  much  begrimed  with  dirt,  contains  the 
only  pleasant  object  in  the  place.  This  is  a  beautiful 
little  miniature  theatre,  —  that  is  to  say,  the  orchestra 
and  stage.  It  is  fitted  with  charmingly  painted  scenery 


180  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

and  all  the  appliances  for  scenic  changes.  There  are  tiny 
traps,  and  delicately  constructed  "  lifts,"  and  real  foot- 
lights fed  with  burning-fluid,  and  in  the  orchestra  sits  a  di- 
minutive conductor  before  his  desk,  surrounded  by  musical 
manikins,  all  provided  with  the  smallest  of  violoncellos, 
flutes,  oboes,  drums,  and  such  like.  There  are  characters 
also  on  the  stage.  A  Templar  in  a  white  cloak  is  drag- 
ging a  fainting  female  form  to  the  parapet  of  a  ruined 
bridge,  while  behind  a  great  black  rock  on  the  left  one 
can  see  a  man  concealed,  who,  kneeling,  levels  an  arque- 
buse  at  the  knight's  heart.  But  the  orchestra  is  silent ; 
the  conductor  never  beats  the  time,  the  musicians  never 
play  a  note ;  the  Templar  never  drags  his  victim  an  inch 
nearer  to  the  bridge ;  the  masked  avenger  takes  an  eternal 
aim  with  his  weapon.  This  repose  appears  unnatural ; 
for  so  admirably  are  the  figures  executed  that  they  seem 
replete  with  life.  One  is  almost  led  to  believe,  in  looking 
on  them,  that  they  are  resting  beneath  some  spell  which 
hinders  their  motion.  One  expects  every  moment  to 
hear  the  loud  explosion  of  the  arquebuse,  —  to  see  the 
blue  smoke  curling,  the  Templar  falling,  —  to  hear  the  or- 
chestra playing  the  requiem  of  the  guilty. 

Few  people  knew  what  Herr  Hippe's  business  or  trade 
really  was.  That  he  worked  at  something  was  evident ; 
else  why  the  shop  1  Some  people  inclined  to  the  belief 
that  he  was  an  inventor,  or  mechanician.  His  workshop 
was  in  the  rear  of  the  store,  and  into  that  sanctuary  no 
one  but  himself  had  admission.  He  arrived  in  Golosh 
Street  eight  or  ten  years  ago,  and  one  fine  morning,  the 
neighbors,  taking  down  their  shutters,  observed  that 
No.  13  had  got  a  tenant.  A  tall,  thin,  sallow-faced  man 
stood  on  a  ladder  outside  the  shop  entrance,  nailing  up  a 
large  board,  on  which  "  Herr  Hippe,  Wondersmith,"  was 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  181 

painted  in  black  letters  on  a  yellow  ground.  The  little 
theatre  stood  in  the  window,  where  it  stood  ever  after, 
and  HeiT  Hippe  was  established. 

But  what  was  a  Wondersmith  1  people  asked  each 
other.  No  one  could  reply.  Madame  Filomel  was  con- 
sulted ;  but  she  looked  grave,  and  said  that  it  was  none 
of  her  business.  Mr.  Pippel,  the  bird-fancier,  who  was  a 
German,  and  ought  to  know  best,  thought  it  was  the 
English  for  some  singular  Teutonic  profession ;  but  his 
replies  were  so  vague  that  Golosh  Street  was  as  unsatis- 
fied as  ever.  Solon,  the  little  humpback,  who  kept  the 
odd-volume  book-stall  at  the  lowest  corner,  could  throw 
no  light  upon  it.  And  at  length  people  had  to  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  Herr  Hippe  was  either  a  coiner  or  a 
magician,  and  opinions  were  divided. 


II. 

A   BOTTLEFUL   OP   SOULS. 

IT  was  a  dull  December  evening.  There  was  little 
trade  doing  in  Golosh  Street,  and  the  shutters  were  up  at 
most  of  the  shops.  Hippe's  store  had  been  closed  at 
least  an  hour,  and  the  Mino-birds  and  Bohemian  wax- 
wings  at  Mr.  Pippel's  had  their  heads  tucked  under  their 
wings  in  their  first  sleep. 

Herr  Hippe  sat  in  his  parlor,  which  was  lit  by  a  pleas- 
ant wood-fire.  There  were  no  candles  in  the  room,  and 
the  flickering  blaze  played  fantastic  tricks  on  the  pale 
gray  walls.  It  seemed  the  festival  of  shadows.  Pro- 
cessions of  shapes,  obscure  and  indistinct,  passed  across 
the  leaden-hued  panels  and  vanished  in  the  dusk  corners. 
Every  fresh  blaze  flung  up  by  the  wayward  logs  created 


182  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

new  images.  Now  it  was  a  funeral  throng,  with  the 
bowed  figures  of  mourners,  the  shrouded  coffin,  the 
plumes  that  waved  like  extinguished  torches;  now  a 
knightly  cavalcade  with  flags  and  lances,  and  weird 
horses,  that  rushed  silently  along  until  they  met  the 
angle  of  the  room,  when  they  pranced  through  the  wall 
and  vanished. 

On  a  table  close  to  where  Herr  Hippe  sat  was  placed 
a  large  square  box  of  some  dark  wood,  while  over  it  was 
spread  a  casing  of  steel,  so  elaborately  wrought  in  an 
open  arabesque  pattern  that  it  seemed  like  a  shining 
blue  lace  which  was  lightly  stretched  over  its  surface. 

Herr  Hippe  lay  luxuriously  in  his  arm-chair,  looking 
meditatively  into  the  fire.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  and 
his  skin  was  of  a  dull  saffron  hue.  Long,  straight  hair, 
sharply  cut,  regular  features,  a  long,  thin  mustache,  that 
curled  like  a  dark  asp  around  his  mouth,  the  expres- 
sion of  which  was  so  bitter  and  cruel  that  it  seemed  to 
distil  the  venom  of  the  ideal  serpent,  and  a  bony,  mus- 
cular form,  were  the  prominent  characteristics  of  the 
Wondersmith. 

The  profound  silence  that  reigned  in  the  chamber  was 
broken  by  a  peculiar  scratching  at  the  panel  of  the  door, 
like  that  which  at  the  French  court  was  formerly  substi- 
tuted for  the  ordinary  knock,  when  it  was  necessary  to 
demand  admission  to  the  royal  apartments.  Herr  Hippe 
started,  raised  his  head,  which  vibrated  on  his  long  neck 
like  the  head  of  a  cobra  when  about  to  strike,  and  after 
a  moment's  silence  uttered  a  strange  guttural  sound. 
The  door  unclosed,  and  a  squat,  broad-shouldered  woman, 
with  large,  wild,  oriental  eyes,  entered  softly. 

"  Ah  !  Filomel,  you  are  come  ! "  said  the  Wondersmith, 
sinking  back  in  his  chair.  "  Where  are  the  rest  of  them  1 " 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  183 

**'  They  will  be  here  presently,"  answered  Madame  Filo- 
mel,  seating  herself  in  an  arm-chair  much  too  narrow  for 
a  person  of  her  proportions,  and  over  the  sides  of  which 
she  bulged  like  a  pudding. 

"  Have  you  brought  the  souls  ? "  asked  the  Wonder- 
smith. 

"  They  are  here,"  said  the  fortune-teller,  drawing  a 
large  pot-bellied  black  bottle  from  under  her  cloak.  "Ah  ! 
I  have  had  such  trouble  with  them ! " 

"  Are  they  of  the  right  brand,  —  wild,  tearing,  dark, 
devilish  fellows  ]  We  want  no  essence  of  milk  and  honey, 
you  know.  None  but  souls  bitter  as  hemlock  or  scorch- 
ing as  lightning  will  suit  our  purpose." 

"  You  will  see,  you  will  see,  Grand  Duke  of  Egypt ! 
They  are  ethereal  demons,  every  one  of  them.  They  are 
the  pick  of  a  thousand  births.  Do  you  think  that  I,  old 
midwife  that  I  am,  don't  know  the  squall  of  the  demon 
child  from  that  of  the  angel  child,  the  very  moment  they 
are  delivered1?  Ask  a  musician  how  he  knows,  even  in 
the  dark,  a  note  struck  by  Thalberg  from  one  struck  by 
Listz  ! " 

"  I  long  to  test  them,"  cried  the  Wondersmith,  rubbing 
his  hands  joyfully.  "  I  long  to  see  how  the  little  devils 
will  behave  when  I  give  them  their  shapes.  Ah !  it  will 
be  a  proud  day  for  us  when  we  let  them  loose  upon  the 
cursed  Christian  children !  Through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land  they  will  go ;  wherever  our  wander- 
ing people  set  foot,  and  wherever  they  are,  the  children 
of  the  Christians  shall  die.  Then  we,  the  despised  Bo- 
hemians, the  gypsies,  as  they  call  us,  will  be  once  more 
lords  of  the  earth,  as  we  were  in  the  days  when  the  ac- 
cursed things  called  cities  did  not  exist,  and  men  lived 
in  the  free  woods  and  hunted  the  game  of  the  forest. 


184  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

Toys  indeed  !  Ay,  ay,  we  will  give  the  little  dears  toy$! 
toys  that  all  day  will  sleep  calmly  in  their  boxes,  seem- 
ingly stiff  and  wooden  and  without  life,  —  but  at  night, 
when  the  souls  enter  them,  will  arise  and  surround  the 
cots  of  the  sleeping  children,  and  pierce  their  hearts  with 
their  keen,  envenomed  blades !  Toys  indeed  !  0,  yes  !  I 
will  sell  them  toys  !  " 

And  the  Wondersmith  laughed  horribly,  while  the 
snaky  mustache  on  his  upper  lip  writhed  as  if  it  had 
truly  a  serpent's  power  and  could  sting. 

"  Have  you  got  your  first  batch,  Herr  Hippe  ] "  asked 
Madame  Filomel.  "  Are  they  all  ready  ?  " 

"  0,  ay !  they  are  ready,"  answered  the  Wondersmith 
with  gusto,  —  opening,  as  he  spoke,  the  box  covered  with 
the  blue  steel  lace-work ;  "  they  are  here." 

The  box  contained  a  quantity  of  exquisitely  carved 
wooden  manikins  of  both  sexes,  painted  with  great  dex- 
terity so  as  to  present  a  miniature  resemblance  to  nature. 
They  were,  in  fact,  nothing  more  than  admirable  speci- 
mens of  those  toys  which  children  delight  in  placing  in 
various  positions  on  the  table,  —  in  regiments,  or  sitting 
at  meals,  or  grouped  under  the  stiff  green  trees  which 
always  accompany  them  in  the  boxes  in  which  they  are 
sold  at  the  toy-shops. 

The  peculiarity,  however,  about  the  manikins  of  Herr 
Hippe  was  not  alone  the  artistic  truth  with  which  the 
limbs  and  the  features  were  gifted ;  but  on  the  counte- 
nance of  each  little  puppet  the  carver's  art  had  wrought 
an  expression  of  wickedness  that  was  appalling.  Every 
tiny  face  had  its  special  stamp  of  ferocity.  The  lips  were 
thin  and  brimful  of  malice ;  the  small  black  bead-like 
eyes  glittered  with  the  fire  of  a  universal  hate.  There 
was  not  one  of  the  manikjns,  male  or  female,  that  did 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  185 

not  hold  in  his  or  her  hand  some  miniature  weapon. 
The  little  men,  scowling  like  demons,  clasped  in  their 
wooden  fingers  swords  delicate  as  a  housewife's  needle. 
The  women,  whose  countenances  expressed  treachery  and 
cruelty,  clutched  infinitesimal  daggers,  with  which  they 
seemed  about  to  take  some  terrible  vengeance. 

"  Good ! "  said  Madame  Filomel,  taking  one  of  the 
manikins  out  of  the  box  and  examining  it  attentively ; 
"you  work  well,  Duke  Balthazar!  These  little  ones  are 
of  the  right  stamp ;  they  look  as  if  they  had  mischief  in 
them.  Ah  !  here  come  our  brothers." 

At  this  moment  the  same  scratching  that  preceded  the 
entrance  of  Madame  Filomel  was  heard  at  the  door,  and 
Herr  Hippe  replied  with  a  hoarse,  guttural  cry.  The 
next  moment  two  men  entered.  The  first  was  a  small 
man  with  very  brilliant  eyes.  He  was  wrapt  in  a  long 
shabby  cloak,  and  wore  a  strange  nondescript  species  of 
cap  on  his  head,  such  a  cap  as  one  sees  only  in  the  low 
billiard-rooms  in  Paris.  His  companion  was  tall,  long- 
limbed,  and  slender ;  and  his  dress,  although  of  the  ordi- 
nary cut,  either  from  the  disposition  of  colors,  or  from 
the  careless,  graceful  attitudes  of  the  wearer,  assumed  a 
certain  air  of  picturesqueness.  Both  the  men  possessed 
the  same  marked  oriental  type  of  countenance  which 
distinguished  the  Wondersmith  and  Madame  Filomel. 
True  gypsies  they  seemed,  who  would  not  have  been  out 
of  place  telling  fortunes,  or  stealing  chickens  in  the  green 
lanes  of  England,  or  wandering  with  their  wild  music  and 
their  sleight-of-hand  tricks  through  Bohemian  villages. 

"Welcome,  brothers!"  said  the  Woudersmith ;  "you 
are  in  time.  Sister  Filomel  has  brought  the  souls,  and 
we  are  about  to  test  them.  Monsieur  Kerplonne,  take  off 
your  cloak.  Brother  Oaksmith,  take  a  chair.  I  promise 


186  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

you  some  amusement  this  evening;  so  make  yourselves 
comfortable.  Here  is  something  to  aid  you." 

And  while  the  Frenchman  Kerplonne,  and  his  tall  com- 
panion, Oaksmith,  were  obeying  Hippe's  invitation,  he 
reached  over  to  a  little  closet  let'  into  the  wall,  and  took 
thence  a  squat  bottle  and  some  glasses,  which  he  placed 
on  the  table. 

"  Drink,  brothers  !  "  he  said  ;  "  it  is  not  Christian  blood, 
but  good  stout  wine  of  Oporto.  It  goes  right  to  the  heart, 
and  warms  one  like  the  sunshine  of  the  south." 

"  It  is  good,"  said  Kerplonne,  smacking  his  lips  with 
enthusiasm. 

"Why  don't  you  keep  brandy1?  Hang  wine!"  cried 
Oaksmith,  after  having  swallowed  two  bumpers  in  rapid 
succession. 

"  Bah  !  Brandy  has  been  the  ruin  of  our  race.  It  has 
made  us  sots  and  thieves.  It  shall  never  cross  my  thresh- 
old," cried  the  Wondersmith,  with  a  sombre  indignation. 

"  A  little  of  it  is  not  bad,  though,  Duke,"  said  the 
fortune-teller.  "It  consoles  us  for  our  misfortunes;  it 
gives  us  the  crowns  we  once  wore ;  it  restores  to  us  the 
power  we  once  wielded ;  it  carries  us  back,  as  if  by  magic, 
to  that  land  of  the  sun  from  which  fate  has  driven  us;  it 
darkens  the  memory  of  all  the  evils  that  we  have  for 
centuries  suffered." 

"  It  is  a  devil ;  may  it  be  cursed ! "  cried  Herr  Hippe, 
passionately.  "It  is  a  demon  that  stole  from  me  my 
son,  the  finest  youth  in  all  Courland.  Yes !  my  son,  the 
son  of  the  Waywode  Balthazar,  Grand  Duke  of  Lower 
Egypt,  died  raving  in  a  gutter,  with  an  empty  brandy- 
bottle  in  his  hands.  Were  it  not  that  the  plant  is  a 
sacred  one  to  our  race,  I  would  curse  the  grape  and  the 
vine  that  bore  it." 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  187 

This  outburst  was  delivered  with  such  energy  that  the 
three  gypsies  kept  silence.  Oaksmith  helped  himself  to 
another  glass  of  port,  and  the  fortune-teller  rocked  to  and 
fro  in  her  chair,  too  much  overawed  by  the  Wondersmith's 
vehemence  of  manner  to*  reply.  The  little  Frenchman, 
Kerplonne,  took  no  part  in  the  discussion,  but  seemed 
lost  in  admiration  of  the  manikins,  which  he  took  from 
the  box  in  which  they  lay,  handling  them  with  the  great- 
est care. 

After  the  'silence  had  lasted  for  about  a  minute,  Herr 
Hippe  broke  it  with  the  sudden  question,  "  How  does 
your  eye  get  on,  Kerplonne  1" 

"  Excellently,  Duke.  It  is  finished.  I  have  it  here." 
And  the  little  Frenchman  put  his  hand  into  his  breeches 
pocket  and  pulled  out  a  large  artificial  human  eye.  Its 
great  size  was  the  only  thing  in  this  eye  that  would  lead 
any  one  to  suspect  its  artificiality.  It  was  at  least  twice 
the  size  of  life ;  but  there  was  a  fearful  speculative  light 
in  its  iris,  which  seemed  to  expand  and  contract  like  the 
eye  of  a  living  being,  that  rendered  it  a  horrible  staring 
paradox.  It  looked  like  the  naked  eye  of  the  Cyclops, 
torn  from  his  forehead,  and  still  burning  with  wrath  and 
the  desire  for  vengeance. 

The  little  Frenchman  laughed  pleasantly  as  he  held  the 
eye  in  his  hand,  and  gazed  down  on  that  huge,  dark  pupil, 
that  stared  back  at  him,  it  seemed,  with  an  air  of  defiance 
and  mistrust. 

"  It  is  a  devil  of  an  eye,"  said  the  little  man,  wiping 
the  enamelled  surface  with  an  old  silk  pocket-handkerchief ; 
"  it  reads  like  a  demon.  My  niece  —  the  unhappy  one  — 
has  a  wretch  of  a  lover,  and  I  have  a  long  time  feared 
that  she  would  run  away  with  him.  I  could  not  read  her 
correspondence,  for  she  kept  her  writing-desk  closely 


188  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

locked.  But  I  asked  her  j^esterday  to  keep  this  eye  in 
some  very  safe  place  for  me.  She  put  it,  as  I  knew  she 
would,  into  her  desk,  and  by  its  aid  I  read  every  one  of 
her  letters.  She  was  to  run  away  next  Monday,  the  un- 
grateful !  but  she  will  find  herself  disappointed." 

And  the  little  man  laughed  heartily  at  the  success  of 
his  stratagem,  and  polished  and  fondled  the  great  eye 
until  that  optic  seemed  to  grow  sore  with  rubbing. 

"And  you  have  been  at  work,  too,  I  see,  Herr  Hippe. 
Your  manikins  are  excellent.  But  where  are  the  souls  1 " 

"  In  that  bottle,"  answered  the  Wondersmith,  pointing 
to  the  pot-bellied  black  bottle  that  Madame  Filomel  had 
brought  with  her.  "Yes,  Monsieur  Kerplonne,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  my  manikins  are  well  made.  I  invoked  the  aid 
of  Abigor,  the  demon  of  soldiery,  and  he  inspired  me. 
The  little  fellows  will  be  famous  assassins  when  they  are 
animated.  We  will  try  them  to-night." 

"  Good  !  "  cried  Kerplonne,  rubbing  his  hands  joyously. 
"  It  is  close  upon  New  Year's  day.  We  will  fabricate 
millions  of  the  little  murderers  by  New  Year's  eve,  and 
sell  them  in  large  quantities ;  and  when  the  households 
are  all  asleep,  and  the  Christian  children  are  waiting  for 
Santa  Glaus  to  come,  the  small  ones  will  troop  from  their 
boxes,  and  the  Christian  children  will  die.  It  is  famous ! 
Health  to  Abigor  !  " 

"  Let  us  try  them  at  once,"  said  Oaksmith.  "  Is  your 
daughter,  Zonela,  in  bed,  Herr  Hippe  1  Are  we  secure 
from  intrusion  ] " 

"  No  one  is  stirring  about  the  house,"  replied  the  Won- 
dersmith, gloomily. 

Filomel  leaned  over  to  Oaksmith,  and  said  in  an  under- 
tone, "Why  do  you  mention  his  daughter1?  ^You  know 
he  does  not  like  to  have  her  spoken  about." 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  189 

"  I  will  take  care  that  we  are  not  disturbed,"  said  Ker- 
plorme,  rising.  "  I  will  put  my  eye  outside  the  door,  to 
watch." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  placed  his  great  eye  upon  the 
floor  with  tender  care.  As  he  did  so,  a  dark  form,  unseen 
by  him  or  his  second  vision,  glided  along  the  passage 
noiselessly,  and  was  lost  in  the  darkness. 

"  Now  for  it !  "  exclaimed  Madame  Filomel,  taking  up 
her  fat  black  bottle.  "  Herr  Hippe,  prepare  your  mani- 
kins ! " 

The  Wondersrnith  took  the  little  dolls  out,  one  by  one, 
and  set  them  upon  the  table.  Such  an  array  of  villanous 
countenances  was  never  seen.  An  army  of  Italian  bravoes, 
seen  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  or  a  band  of 
prisoners  at  the  galleys  in  Liliput,  will  give  some  faint 
idea  of  the  appearance  they  presented.  While  Madame 
Filomel  uncorked  the  black  bottle,  Herr  Hippe  covered 
the  dolls  with  a  species  of  linen  tent,  which  he  took  also 
from  the  box.  This  done,  the  fortune-teller  held  the 
mouth  of  the  bottle  to  the  door  of  the  tent,  gathering 
the  loose  cloth  closely  round  the  glass  neck.  Immediately 
tiny  noises  were  heard  inside  the  tent.  Madame  Filomel 
removed  the  bottle,  and  the  Wondersmith  lifted  the 
covering  in  which  he  had  enveloped  his  little  people. 

A  wonderful  transformation  had  taken  place.  Wooden 
and  inflexible  no  longer,  the  crowd  of  manikins  were  now 
in  full  motion.  The  bead-like  eyes  turned,  glittering,  on 
all  sides  ;  the  thin,  wicked  lips  quivered  with  bad  passions  ; 
the  tiny  hands  sheathed  and  unsheathed  the  little  swords 
and  daggers.  Episodes,  common  to  life,  were  taking 
place  in  every  direction.  Here  two  martial  manikins 
paid  court  to  a  pretty,  sly-faced  female,  who  smiled  on 
each  alternately,  but  gave  her  hand  to  be  kissed  to  a 


190  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

third  manikin,  an  ugly  little  scoundrel,  who  crouched  be- 
hind her.  There  a  pair  of  friendly  dolls  walked  arm  in 
arm,  apparently  on  the  best  terms,  while,  all  the  time, 
one  was  watching  his  opportunity  to  stab  the  other  in 
the  back. 

"  I  think  they  '11  do,"  said  the  Wondersmith,  chuckling 
as  he  watched  these  various  incidents.  "  Treacherous, 
cruel,  bloodthirsty.  All  goes  marvellously  well.  But 
stay  !  I  will  put  the  grand  test  to  them." 

So  saying,  he  drew  a  gold  dollar  from  his  pocket,  and 
let  it  fall  on  the  table,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  throng  of 
manikins.  It '  had  hardly  touched  the  table  when  there 
was  a  pause  on  all  sides.  Every  head  was  turned  towards 
the  dollar.  Then  about  twenty  of  the  little  creatures 
rushed  towards  the  glittering  coin.  One,  fleeter  than  the 
rest,  leaped  upon  it  and  drew  his  sword.  The  entire 
crowd  of  little  people  had  now  gathered  round  this  new 
centre  of  attraction.  Men  and  women  struggled  and 
shoved  to  get  nearer  to  the  piece  of  gold.  Hardly  had 
the  first  Liliputian  mounted  upon  the  treasure,  when  a 
hundred  blades  flashed  back  a  defiant  answer  to  his,  and 
a  dozen  men,  sword  in  hand,  leaped  upon  the  yellow  plat- 
form and  drove  him  off  at  the  sword's  point.  Then  com- 
menced a  general  battle.  The  miniature  faces  were  con- 
vulsed with  rage  and  avarice.  Each  furious  doll  tried  to 
plunge  dagger  or  sword  into  his  or  her  neighbor,  and  the 
women  seemed  possessed  by  a  thousand  devils. 

"  They  will  break  themselves  into  atoms,"  cried  Filo- 
mel,  as  she  watched  with  eagerness  this  savage  melee. 
"You  had  better  gather  them  up,  Herr  Hippe.  I  will 
exhaust  my  bottle  and  suck  all  the  souls  back  from 
them." 

"  0,    they   are   perfect   devils  !   they   are   magnificent 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  191 

little  demons  !  "  cried  the  Frenchman,  with  enthusiasm. 
"Hippe,  you  are  a  wonderful  man.  Brother  Oaksmith, 
you  have  no  such  man  as  Hippe  among  your  English 
gypsies." 

"Not  exactly,"  answered  Oaksmith,  rather  sullenly, 
"  not  exactly.  But  we  have  men  there  who  can  make  a 
twelve-year-old  horse  look  like  a  four-year-old,  —  and  who 
can  take  you  and  Herr  Hippe  up  with  one  hand,  and 
throw  you  over  their  shoulders." 

"  The  good  God  forbid ! "  said  the  little  Frenchman. 
"  I  do  not  love  such  play.  It  is  incommodious." 

While  Oaksmith  and  Kerplonne  were  talking,  the  Won- 
dersmith  had  placed  the  linen  tent  over  the  struggling 
dolls,  and  Madame  Filomel,  who  had  been  performing 
some  mysterious  manipulations  with  her  black  bottle,  put 
the  mouth  once  more  to  the  door  of  the  tent.  In  an 
instant  the  confused  murmur  within  ceased.  Madame 
Filomel  corked  the  bottle  quickly.  The  Wondersmith 
withdrew  the  tent,  and,  lo!  the  furious  dolls  were  once 
more  wooden-jointed  and  inflexible ;  and  the  old  sinister 
look  was  again  frozen  on  their  faces. 

"  They  must  have  blood,  though,"  said  Herr  Hippe,  as 
he  gathered  them  up  and  put  them  into  their  box.  "  Mr. 
Pippel,  the  bird-fancier,  is  asleep.  I  have  a  key  that 
opens  his  door.  We  will  let  them  loose  among  the  birds ; 
it  will  be  rare  fun." 

"  Magnificent !  "  cried  Kerplonne.  "  Let  us  go  on  the 
instant.  But  first  let  me  gather  up  my  eye." 

The  Frenchman  pocketed  his  eye,  after  having  given  it 
a  polish  with  the  silk  handkerchief;  Herr  Hippe  extin- 
guished the  lamp ;  Oaksmith  took  a  last  bumper  of  port ; 
and  the  four  gypsies  departed  for  Mr.  Pippel's,  carrying 
the  box  of  manikins  with  them. 


192  THE  WONDEKSMITH. 

III. 

SOLON. 

THE  shadow  that  glided  along  the  dark  corridor,  at  the 
moment  that  Monsieur  Kerplonne  deposited  his  sentinel 
eye  outside  the  door  of  the  Wondersmith's  apartment, 
sped  swiftly  through  the  passage  and  ascended  the  stairs 
to  the  attic.  Here  the  shadow  stopped  at  the  entrance 
to  one  of  the  chambers  and  knocked  at  the  door.  There 
was  no  reply. 

"  Zonela,  are  you  asleep  1 "  said  the  shadow,  softly. 

"0,  Solon,  is  it  you  1 "  replied  a  sweet  low  voice  from 
within.  "I  thought  it  was  Herr  Hippe.  Come  in.' 

The  shadow  opened  the  door  and  entered.  There  were 
neither  candles  nor  lamp  in  the  room  ;  but  through  the 
projecting  window,  which  was  open,  there  came  the  faint 
gleams  of  the  starlight,  by  which  one  could  distinguish  a 
female  figure  seated  on  a  low  stool  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor. 

"  Has  he  left  you  without  light  again,  Zonela  ? "  asked 
the  shadow,  closing  the  door  of  the  apartment.  "  I  have 
brought  my  little  lantern  with  me,  though." 

"  Thank  you,  Solon,"  answered  she  called  Zonela ;  "  you 
are  a  good  fellow.  He  never  gives  me  any  light  of  an 
evening,  but  bids  me  go  to  bed.  1  like  to  sit  sometimes 
and  look  at  the  moon  and  the  stars,  — the  stars  more 
than  all ;  for  they  seem  all  the  time  to  look  right  back 
into  my  face,  very  sadly,  as  if  they  would  say,  'We  see 
you,  and  pity  you,  and  would  help  you,  if  we  could.'  But 
it  is  so  mournful  to  be  always  looking  at  such  myriads  of 
melancholy  eyes  !  and  I  long  so  to  read  those  nice  books 
that  you  lend  me,  Solon  !  " 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  193 

By  this  time  the  shadow  had  lit  the  lantern  and  was  a 
shadow  no  longer.  A  large  head,  covered  with  a  profu- 
sion of  long  blonde  hair,  which  was  cut  after  that  fashion 
known  as  ct  Venfants  dEdouard  ;  a  beautiful  pale  face,  lit 
with  wide,  blue,  dreamy  eyes;  long  arms  and  slender 
hands,  attenuated  legs,  and  —  an  enormous  hump  ;  — 
such  was  Solon,  the  shadow.  As  soon  as  the  humpback 
had  lit  the  lamp,  Zonela  arose  from  the  low  stool  on 
which  she  had  been  seated,  and  took  Solon's  hand  affec- 
tionately in  hers. 

Zonela  was  surely  not  of  gypsy  blood.  That  rich  au- 
burn hair,  that  looked  almost  black  in  the  lamp-light, 
that  pale,  transparent  skin,  tinged  with  an  under-glow  of 
warm  rich  blood,  the  hazel  eyes,  large  and  soft  as  those 
of  a  fawn,  were  never  begotten  of  a  Zingaro.  Zonela  was 
seemingly  about  sixteen ;  her  figure,  although  somewhat 
thin  and  angular,  was  full  of  the  unconscious  grace  of 
youth.  She  was  dressed  in  an  old  cotton  print,  which 
had  been  once  of  an  exceedingly  boisterous  pattern,  but 
was  now  a  mere  suggestion  of  former  splendor;  while 
round  her  head  was  twisted,  in  fantastic  fashion,  a  silk 
handkerchief  of  green  ground  spotted  with  bright  crimson. 
This  strange  head-dress  gave  her  an  elfish  appearance. 

"  I  have  been  out  all  day  with  the  organ,  and  I  am  so 
tired,  Solon !  —  not  sleepy,  but  weary,  I  mean.  Poor 
Furbelow  was  sleepy,  though,  and  he  's  gone  to  bed." 

"  I  'm  weary,  too,  Zonela ;  —  not  weary  as  you  are, 
though,  for  I  sit  in  my  little  book-stall  all  day  long,  and 
do  not  drag  round  an  organ  and  a  monkey  and  play  old 
tunes  for  pennies,  —  but  weary  of  myself,  of  life,  of  the 
load  that  I  carry  on  my  shoulders  " ;  and,  as  he  said  tins, 
the  poor  humpback  glanced  sideways,  as  if  to  call  atten- 
tion to  his  deformed  person. 

13 


194  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

"Well,  but  you  ought  not  to  be  melancholy  amidst 
your  books,  Solon.  Gracious  !  If  I  could  only  sit  in  the 
sun  and  read  as  you  do,  how  happy  I  should  be !  But 
it 's  very  tiresome  to  trudge  round  all  day  with  that  nasty 
organ,  and  look  up  at  the  houses,  and  know  that  you  are 
annoying  the  people  inside  ;  and  then  the  boys  play  such 
bad  tricks  on  poor  Furbelow,  throwing  him  hot  pennies 
to  pick  up,  and  burning  his  poor  little  hands ;  and  oh  ! 
sometimes,  Solon,  the  men  in  the  street  make  me  so 
afraid,  —  they  speak  to  me  and  look  at  me  so  oddly  !  — 
I  'd  a  great  deal  rather  sit  in  your  book-stall  and  read." 

"I  have  nothing  but  odd  volumes  in  my  stall,"  an- 
swered the  humpback.  "  Perhaps  that 's  right,  though ; 
for,  after  all,  I  'm  nothing  but  an  odd  volume  myself." 

"  Come,  don't  be  melancholy,  Solon.  Sit  down  and  tell 
me  a  story.  I  '11  bring  Furbelow  to  listen." 

So  saying,  she  went  to  a  dusk  corner  of  the  cheerless 
attic  room,  and  returned  with  a  little  Brazilian  monkey 
in  her  arms,  —  a  poor,  mild,  drowsy  thing,  that  looked 
as  if  it  had  cried  itself  to  sleep.  She  sat  down  on  her 
little  stool,  with  Furbelow  in  her  lap,  and  nodded  her 
head  to  Solon,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Go  on ;  we  are  at- 
tentive." 

"  You  want  a  story,  do  you  ? "  said  the  humpback,  with 
a  mournful  smile.  "  Well,  I  '11  tell  you  one.  Only  what 
will  your  father  say,  if  he  catches  me  here  ? " 

"  Herr  Hippe  is  not  my  father,"  cried  Zonela,  indig- 
nantly. "  He  's  a  gypsy,  and  I  know  I  'm  stolen ;  and 
I  'd  run  away  from  him,  if  I  only  knew  where  to  run  to. 
If  I  were  his  child,  do  you  think  that  he  would  treat  me 
as  he  does  1  make  me  trudge  round  the  city,  all  day  long, 
with  a  barrel-organ  and  a  monkey,  —  though  I  love  poor, 
dear  little  Furbelow,  —  and  keep  me  up  in  a  garret,  and 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  195 

give  me  ever  so  little  to  eat  1  I  know  I  'm  not  his  child, 
for  he  hates  me." 

"Listen  to  my  story,  Zonela,  and  we  11  talk  of  that 
afterwards.  Let  me  sit  at  your  feet " ;  —  and,  having 
coiled  himself  up  at  the  little  maiden's  feet,  he  com- 
menced :  — 

"  There  once  lived  in  a  great  city,  just  like  this  city  of 
New  York,  a  poor  little  hunchback.  He  kept  a  second- 
hand book-stall,  where  he  made  barely  enough  money  to 
keep  body  and  soul  together.  He  was  very  sad  at  times, 
because  he  knew  scarce  any  one,  and  those  that  he  did 
know  did  not  love  him.  He  had  passed  a  sickly,  secluded 
youth.  The  children  of  his  neighborhood  would  not  play 
with  him,  for  he  was  not  made  like  them ;  and  the  people 
in  the  streets  stared  at  him  with  pity,  or  scoffed  at  him 
when  he  went  by.  Ah  !  Zonela,  how  his  poor  heart  was 
wrung  with  bitterness  when  he  beheld  the  procession  of 
shapely  men  and  fine  women  that  every  day  passed  him 
by  in  the  thoroughfares  of  the  great  city  !  How  he  re- 
pined and  cursed  his  fate  as  the  torrent  of  fleet-footed 
firemen  dashed  past  him  to  the  toll  of  the  bells,  magnifi- 
cent in  their  overflowing  vitality  and  strength !  But 
there  was  one  consolation  left  him,  —  one  drop  of  honey 
in  the  jar  of  gall,  so  sweet  that  it  ameliorated  all  the  bit- 
terness of  life.  God  had  given  him  a  deformed  body,  but 
his  mind  was  straight  and  healthy.  So  the  poor  hunch- 
back shut  himself  into  the  world  of  books,  and  was,  if  not 
happy,  at  least  contented.  He  kept  company  with  cour- 
teous paladins,  and  romantic  heroes,  and  beautiful  women  ; 
and  this  society  was  of  such  excellent  breeding  that  it 
never  so  much  as  once  noticed  his  poor  crooked  back  or 
his  lame  walk.  The  love  of  books  grew  upon  him  with 
his  years.  He  was  remarked  for  his  studious  habits ; 


196  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

and  "when,  one  day,  the  obscure  people  that  he  called 
father  and  mother  —  parents  only  in  name  —  died,  a 
compassionate  book-vender  gave  him  enough  stock  in 
trade  to  set  up  a  little  stall  of  his  own.  Here,  in  his 
book-stall,  he  sat  in  the  sun  all  day,  waiting  for  the  cus- 
tomers that  seldom  came,  and  reading  the  fine  deeds  of 
the  people  of  the  ancient  time,  or  the  beautiful  thoughts 
of  the  poets  that  had  warmed  millions  of  hearts  before 
that  hour,  and  still  glowed  for  him  with  undiminished 
fire.  One  day,  when  he  was  reading  some  book,  that, 
small  as  it  was,  was  big  enough  to  shut  the  whole  world 
out  from  him,  he  heard  some  music  in  the  street.  Look- 
ing up  from  his  book,  he  saw  a  little  girl,  with  large  eyes, 
playing  an  organ,  while  a  monkey  begged  for  alms  from  a 
crowd  of  idlers  who  had  nothing  in  their  pockets  but 
their  hands.  The  girl  was  playing,  but  she  was  also 
weeping.  The  merry  notes  of  the  polka  were  ground  out 
to  a  silent  accompaniment  of  tears.  She  looked  very  sad, 
this  organ-girl,  and  her  monkey  seemed  to  have  caught 
the  infection,  for  his  large  brown  eyes  were  moist,  as  if  he 
also  wept.  The  poor  hunchback  was  struck  with  pity, 
and  called  the  little  girl  over  to  give  her  a  penny,  —  not, 
dear  Zonela,  because  he  wished  to  bestow  alms,  but  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  speak  with  her.  She  came,  and  they 
talked  together.  She  came  the  next  day,  —  for  it  turned 
out  that  they  were  neighbors,  —  and  the  next,  and,  in 
short,  every  day.  They  became  friends.  They  were  both 
lonely  and  afflicted,  with  this  difference,  that  she  was 
beautiful,  and  he  —  was  a  hunchback." 

"  Why,  Solon,"  cried  Zonela,  "  that 's  the  very  way  you 
and  I  met !  " 

"  It  was  then,"  continued  Solon,  with  a  faint  smile, 
"  that  life  seemed  to  have  its  music.  A  great  harmony 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  197 

seemed  to  the  poor  cripple  to  fill  the  world.  The  carts 
that  took  the  flour-barrels  from  the  wharves  to  the  store- 
houses seemed  to  emit  joyous  melodies  from  their  wheels. 
The  hum  of  the  great  business  streets  sounded  like  grand 
symphonies  of  triumph.  As  one  who  has  been  travelling 
through  a  barren  country  without  much  heed  feels  with 
singular  force  the  sterility  of  the  lands  he  has  passed 
through  when  he  reaches  the  fertile  plains  that  lie  at  the 
end  of  his  journey,  so  the  humpback,  after  his  vision  had 
been  freshened  with  this  blooming  flower,  remembered  for 
the  first  time  the  misery  of  the  life  that  he  had  led.  But 
he  did  not  allow  himself  to  dwell  upon  the  past.  The 
present  was  so  delightful  that  it  occupied  all  his  thoughts. 
Zonela,  he  was  in  love  with  the  organ-girl." 

"  0,  that 's  so  nice  ! "  said  Zonela,  innocently,  —  pinch- 
ing poor  Furbelow,  as  she  spoke,  in  order  to  dispel  a  very- 
evident  snooze  that  was  creeping  over  him.  "  It 's  going 
to  be4  a  love-story." 

"  Ah !  but,  Zonela,  he  did  not  know  whether  she  loved 
him  in  return.  You  forget  that  he  was  deformed." 

"  But,"  answered  the  girl  gravely,  "  he  was  good." 

A  light  like  the  flash  of  an  aurora  illuminated  Solon's 
face  for  an  instant.  He  put  out  his  hand  suddenly,  as  if 
to  take  Zonela's  and  press  it  to  his  heart ;  but  an  unac- 
countable timidity  seemed  to  arrest  the  impulse,  and  he 
only  stroked  Furbelow's  head,  —  upon  which  that  indi- 
vidual opened  one  large  brown  eye  to  the  extent  of  the 
eighth  of  an  inch,  and,  seeing  that  it  was  only  Solon,  in- 
stantly closed  it  again,  and  resumed  his  dream  of  a  city 
where  there  were  no  organs  and  all  the  copper  coin  of  the 
realm  was  iced. 

"  He  hoped  and  feared,"  continued  Solon,  in  a  low, 
mournful  voice ;  "  but  at  times  he  was  very  miserable, 


198  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

because  he  did  not  think  it  possible  that  so  much  happi- 
ness was  reserved  for  him  as  the  love  of  this  beautiful, 
innocent  girl.  At  night,  when  he  was  in  bed,  and  all  the 
world  was  dreaming,  he  lay  awake  looking  up  at  the  old 
books  against  the  walls,  thinking  how  he  could  bring 
about  the  charming  of  her  heart.  One  night,  when  he 
was  thinking  of  this,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  mouldy 
backs  of  the  odd  volumes  that  lay  on  their  shelves,  and 
looked  back  at  him  wistfully,  as  if  they  would  say,  l  We 
also  are  like  you,  and  wait  to  be  completed,'  it  seemed 
as  if  he  heard  a  rustle  of  leaves.  Then,  one  by  one,  the 
books  came  down  from  their  places  to  the  floor,  as  if 
shifted  by  invisible  hands,  opened  their  worm-eaten  cov- 
ers, and  from  between  the  pages  of  each  the  hunchback 
saw  issue  forth  a  curious  throng  of  little  people  that 
danced  here  and  there  through  the  apartment.  Each  one 
of  these  little  creatures  was  shaped  so  as  to  bear  resem- 
blance to  some  one  of  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  One 
tall,  long-legged  fellow  seemed  like  the  letter  A ;  a  burly 
fellow,  with  a  big  head  and  a  paunch,  was  the  model  of 
B ;  another  leering  little  chap  might  have  passed  for  a  Q ; 
and  so  on  through  the  whole.  These  fairies  —  for  fairies 
they  were  —  climbed  upon  the  hunchback's  bed,  and 
clustered  thick  as  bees  upon  his  pillow.  '  Come  ! '  they 
cried  to  him,  *  we  will  lead  you  into  fairy-land.'  So  say- 
ing, they  seized  his  hand,  and  he  suddenly  found  himself 
in  a  beautiful  country,  where  the  light  did  not  come  from 
sun  or  moon  or  stars,  but  floated  round  and  over  and  in 
everything  like  the  atmosphere.  On  all  sides  he  heard 
mysterious  melodies  sung  by  strangely  musical  voices. 
None  of  the  features  of  the  landscape  was  definite  ;  yet 
when  he  looked  on  the  vague  harmonies  of  color  that 
melted  one  into  another  before  his  sight  he  was  filled 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  199 

with  a  sense  of  inexplicable  beauty.  On  every  side  of 
him  fluttered  radiant  bodies,  which  darted  to  and  fro 
through  the  illumined  space.  They  were  not  birds,  yet 
they  flew  like  birds ;  and  as  each  one  crossed  the  path  of 
his  vision  he  felt  a  strange  delight  flash  through  his  brain, 
and  straightway  an  interior  voice  seemed  to  sing  beneath 
the  vaulted  dome  of  his  temples  a  verse  containing  some 
beautiful  thought.  The  little  fairies  were  all  this  time 
dancing  and  fluttering  around  him,  perching  on  his  head, 
on  his  shoulders,  or  balancing  themselves  on  his  finger- 
tips. '  Where  am  1 1 '  he  asked,  at  last,  of  his  friends,  the 
fairies.  '  Ah,  Solon  ! '  he  heard  them  whisper,  hi  tones 
that  sounded  like  the  distant  tinkling  of  silver  bells, 
'  this  land  is  nameless ;  but  those  whom  we  lead  hither, 
who  tread  its  soil,  and  breathe  its  air,  and  gaze  on  its 
floating  sparks  of  light,  are  poets  forevermore.'  Having 
said  this,  they  vanished,  and  with  them  the  beautiful  in- 
definite land,  and  the  flashing  lights,  and  the  illumined 
air ;  and  the  hunchback  found  himself  again  in  bed,  with 
the  moonlight  quivering  on  the  floor,  and  the  dusty  books 
on  their  shelves,  grim  and  mouldy  as  ever." 

"You  have  betrayed  yourself.  You  called  yourself 
Solon,"  cried  Zonela.  "  Was  it  a  dream  ? " 

"I  do  not  know,"  answered  Solon;  "but  since  that 
night  I  have  been  a  poet." 

"  A  poet  1 "  screamed  the  little  organ  girl,  —  "a  real 
poet,  who  makes  verses  which  every  one  reads  and  every 
one  talks  of?" 

"  The  people  call  me  a  poet,"  answered  Solon,  with  a 
sad  smile.  "  They  do  not  know  me  by  the  name  of  So- 
lon, for  I  write  under  an  assumed  title ;  but  they  praise 
me,  and  repeat  my  songs.  But,  Zonela,  I  can't  sing  this 
load  off  of  my  back,  can  II" 


200  THE  WONDEBSMITH. 

"  0,  bother  the  hump ! "  said  Zone*la,  jumping  up 
suddenly.  "  You  're  a  poet,  and  that 's  enough,  is  n't  it  1 
I  'm  so  glad  you  're  a  poet,  Solon !  You  must  repeat  all 
your  best  things  to  me,  won't  you  1 " 

Solon  nodded  assent. 

"  You  don't  ask  me,"  he  said,  "  who  was  the  little  girl 
that  the  hunchback  loved." 

Zonela's  face  flushed  crimson.  She  turned  suddenly 
away,  and  ran  into  a  dark  corner  of  the  room.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  returned  with  an  old  hand-organ  in  her  arms. 

"  Play,  Solon,  play  !  "  she  cried.  lt  I  am  so  glad  that 
I  want  to  dance.  Furbelow,  come  and  dance  in  honor  of 
Solon  the  Poet." 

It  was  her  confession.  Solon's  eyes  flamed,  as  if  his 
brain  had  suddenly  ignited.  He  said  nothing  ;  'but  a  tri- 
umphant smile  broke  over  his  countenance.  Zon^la,  the 
twilight  of  whose  cheeks  was  still  rosy  with  the  setting 
blush,  caught  the  lazy  Furbelow  by  his  little  paws ;  Solon 
turned  the  crank  of  the  organ,  which  wheezed  out  as 
merry  a  polka  as  its  asthma  would  allow,  and  the  girl 
and  the  monkey  commenced  their  fantastic  dance.  They 
had  taken  but  a  few  steps  when  the  door  suddenly  opened, 
and  the  tall  figure  of  the  Wondersmith  appeared  on  the 
threshold.  His  face  was  convulsed  with  rage,  and  the 
black  snake  that  quivered  on  his  upper  lip  seemed  to 
rear  itself  as  if  about  to  spring  upon  the  hunchback. 


IV. 

THE  MANIKINS  AND   THE   MINOS. 

THE  four  gypsies  left  Herr  Hippe's  house  cautiously, 
and  directed  their  steps  towards  Mr.  Pippel's  bird-shop. 


THE  WONDERSMTTH.  201 

Golosh  Street  was  asleep.  Nothing  was  stirring  in  that 
tenebrous  slum,  save  a  dog  that  savagely  gnawed  a  bone 
which  lay  on  a  dust-heap,  tantalizing  him  with  the  flavor 
of  food  without  its  substance.  As  the  gypsies  moved 
stealthily  along  in  the  darkness  they  had  a  sinister  and 
murderous  air  that  would  not  have  failed  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  policeman  of  the  quarter,  if  that  worthy 
had  not  at  the  moment  been  comfortably  ensconced  in 
the  neighboring  "Rainbow"  bar-room,  listening  to  the 
improvisations  of  that  talented  vocalist,  Mr.  Harrison, 
who  was  making  impromptu  verses  on  every  possible  sub- 
ject, to  the  accompaniment  of  a  cithern  which  was  played 
by  a  sad  little  Italian  in  a  large  cloak,  to  whom  the  host 
of  the  "  Rainbow  "  gave  so  many  toddies  and  a  dollar  for 
his  nightly  performance. 

Mr.  Pippel's  shop  was  but  a  short  distance  from  the 
Wondersmith's  house.  A  few  moments,  therefore,  brought 
the  gypsy  party  to  the  door,  when,  by  the  aid  of  a  key 
which  Herr  Hippe  produced,  they  silently  slipped  into 
the  entry.  Here  the  Wondersmith  took  a  dark-lantern 
from  under  his  cloak,  removed  the  cap  that  shrouded  the 
light,  and  led  the  way  into  the  shop,  which  was  separated 
from  the  entry  only  by  a  glass  door,  that  yielded,  like  the 
outer  one,  to  a  key  which  Hippe  took  from  his  pocket. 
The  four  gypsies  now  entered  the  shop  and  closed  the 
door  behind  them. 

It  was  a  little  world  of  birds.  On  every  side,  whether 
in  large  or  small  cages,  one  beheld  balls  of  various-colored 
feathers  standing  on  one  leg  and  breathing  peacefully. 
Love-birds,  nestling  shoulder  to  shoulder,  with  their  heads 
tucked  under  their  wings  and  all  their  feathers  puffed 
out,  so  that  they  looked  like  globes  of  malachite  ;  English 
bullfinches,  with  ashen-colored  backs,  in  which  their  black 


202  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

heads  were  buried,  and  corselets  of  a  rosy  down;  Java 
sparrows,  fat  and  sleek  and  cleanly;  troupials,  so  glossy 
and  splendid  in  plumage  that  they  Jooked  as  if  they  were 
dressed  in  the  celebrated  armor  of  the  Black  Prince, 
which  was  jet,  richly  damascened  with  gold ;  a  cock  of 
the  rock,  gleaming,  a  ball  of  tawny  fire,  like  a  setting 
sun ;  the  campauero  of  Brazil,  white  as  snow,  with  his 
dilatable  tolling-tube  hanging  from  his  head,  placid  and 
silent ;  —  these,  with  a  humbler  crowd  of  linnets,  canaries, 
robins,  mocking-birds,  and  phoebes,  slumbered  calmly  in 
their  little  cages,  that  were  hung  so  thickly  on  the  wall 
as  not  to  leave  an  inch  of  it  visible. 

"  Splendid  little  morsels,  all  of  them  !  "  exclaimed  Mon- 
sieur Kerplonne.  "  Ah,  we  are  going  to  have  a  rare  beat- 
ing ! " 

"  So  Pippel  does  not  sleep  in  his  shop,"  said  the  Eng- 
lish gypsy,  Oaksniith. 

"  No.  The  fellow  lives  somewhere  up  one  of  the  ave- 
nues," answered  Madame  Filomel.  "  He  came,  the  other 
evening,  to  consult  me  about  his  fortune.  I  did  not  tell 
him,"  she  added  with  a  laugh,  "that  he  was  going  to 
have  so  distinguished  a  sporting  party  on  his  premises." 

"  Come,"  said  the  Wondersmith,  producing  the  box  of 
manikins,  "get  ready  with  souls,  Madame  Filomel.  I  am 
impatient  to  see  my  little  men  letting  out  lives  for  the 
first  time.  Just  at  the  moment  that  the  Wondersmith 
uttered  this  sentence,  the  four  gypsies  were  startled  by  a 
hoarse  voice  issuing  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  pro- 
pounding in  the  most  guttural  tones  the  intemperate 
query  of  "  What  '11  you  take  1 "  This  sottish  invitation 
had  scarce  been  given,  when  a  second  extremely  thick 
voice  replied  from  an  opposite  corner,  in  accents  so  rough 
that  they  seemed  to  issue  from  a  throat  torn  and  fur- 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  203 

rowed  by  the  liquid  lava  of  many  bar-rooms,  "Brandy 
and  water." 

"  Hollo  !  who  's  here  ? "  muttered  Herr  Hippe,  flashing 
the  light  of  his  lantern  round  the  shop. 

Oaksmith  turned  up  his  coat-cuffs,  as  if  to  be  ready 
for  a  fight;  Madame  Filomel  glided,  or  rather  rolled, 
towards  the  door ;  while  Kerplonne  put  his  hand  into  his 
pocket,  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  his  supernumerary 
optic  was  all  right. 

"  What  '11  you  take  ?  "  croaked  the  voice  in  the  corner, 
once  more. 

"  Brandy  and  water,"  rapidly  replied  the  second  voice 
in  the  other  corner.  And  then,  as  if  by  a  concerted  move- 
ment, a  series  of  bibular  invitations  and  acceptances  were 
rolled  backwards  and  forwards  with  a  volubility  of  utter- 
ance that  threw  Patter  versus  Clatter  into  the  shade. 

"  What  the  devil  can  it  be  1 "  muttered  the  Wonder- 
smith,  flashing  his  lantern  here  and  there.  "  Ah  !  it  is 
those  Minos." 

So  saying,  he  stopped  under  one  of  the  wicker  cages 
that  hung  high  up  on  the  wall,  and  raised  the  lantern 
above  his  head,  so  as  to  throw  the  light  upon  that  par- 
ticular cage.  The  hospitable  individual  who  had  been 
extending  all  these  hoarse  invitations  to  partake  of  intox- 
icating beverages  was  an  inhabitant  of  the  cage.  It  was 
a  large  Mine-bird,  who  now  stood  perched  on  his  cross- 
bar, with  his  yellowish-orange  bill  sloped  slightly  over 
his  shoulder,  and  his  white  eye  cocked  knowingly  upon 
the  Wondersmith.  The  respondent  voice  in  the  other 
corner  came  from  another  Mino-bird,  who  sat  in  the  dusk 
in  a  similar  cage,  also  attentively  watching  the  Wonder- 
smith.  These  Mino-birds  have  a  singular  aptitude  for 
acquiring  phi 


204  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

"  What  '11  you  take !"  repeated  the  Mino,  cocking  his 
other  eye  upon  Herr  Hippe. 

"MonDieu!  what  a  bird  !"  exclaimed  the  little  French- 
man. "  He  is,  in  truth,  polite." 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  '11  take,"  said  Hippe,  as  if  replying 
to  the  Miuo-bird ;  "  but  I  know  what  you  '11  get,  old  fellow  ! 
Filomel,  open  the  cage-doors,  and  give  me  the  bottle." 

Filomel  opened,  one  after  another,  the  doors  of  the 
numberless  little  cages,  thereby  arousing  from  slumber 
their  feathered  occupants,  who  opened  their  beaks,  and 
stretched  their  claws,  and  stared  with  great  surprise  at 
the  lantern  and  the  midnight  visitors. 

By  this  time  the  Wondersmith  had  performed  the  mys- 
terious manipulations  with  the  bottle,  and  the  manikins 
were  once  more  in  full  motion,  swarming  out  of  their  box, 
sword  and  dagger  in  hand,  with  their  little  black  eyes 
glittering  fiercely,  and  their  white  teeth  shining.  The  lit- 
tle creatures  seemed  to  scent  their  prey.  The  gypsies 
stood  in  the  centre  of  the  shop,  watching  the  proceedings 
eagerly,  while  the  Liliputians  made  in  a  body  towards  the 
wall  and  commenced  climbing  from  cage  to  cage.  Then 
was  heard  a  tremendous  fluttering  of  wings,  and  faint, 
despairing  "  quirks"  echoed  on  all  sides.  In  almost  every 
cage  there  was  a  fierce  manikin  thrusting  his  sword  or 
dagger  vigorously  into  the  body  of  some  unhappy  bird. 
It  recalled  the  antique  legend  of  the  battles  of  the  Pyg- 
mies and  the  Cranes.  The  poor  love-birds  lay  with 
their  emerald  feathers  dabbled  in  their  heart's  blood, 
shoulder  to  shoulder  in  death  as  in  life.  Canaries  gasped 
at  the  bottom  of  their  cages,  while  the  water  in  their 
little  glass  fountains  ran  red.  The  bullfinches  wore 
an  unnatural  crimson  on  their  breasts.  The  mocking- 
bird lay  on  his  back,  kicking  spasmodically,  in  the  last 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  205 

agonies,  with  a  tiny  sword-thrust  cleaving  his  melodious 
throat  in  twain,  so  that  from  the  instrument  which  used 
to  gush  with  wondrous  music  only  scarlet  drops  of  blood 
now  trickled.  The  manikins  were  ruthless.  Their  faces 
were  ten  times  wickeder  than  ever,  as  they  roamed  from 
cage  to  cage,  slaughtering  with  a  fury  that  seemed  en- 
tirely unappeasable.  Presently  the  feathery  rustlings 
became  fewer  and  fainter,  and  the  little  pipings  of  de- 
spair died  away ;  and  in  every  cage  lay  a  poor  murdered 
minstrel,  with  the  song  that  abode  within  him  forever 
quenched ;  —  in  every  cage  but  two,  and  those  two  were 
high  up  on  the  wall ;  and  in  each  glared  a  pair  of  wild, 
white  eyes ;  and  an  orange  beak,  tough  as  steel,  pointed 
threateningly  down.  With  the  needles  which  they 
grasped  as  swords  all  wet  and  warm  with  blood,  and 
their  beadlike  eyes  flashing  in  the  light  of  the  lantern, 
the  Lilliputian  assassins  swarmed  up  the  cages  in  two 
separate  bodies,  until  they  reached  the  wickets  of  the 
habitations  in  which  the  Minos  abode.  Mino  saw  them 
coming,  —  had  listened  attentively  to  the  many  death- 
struggles  of  his  comrades,  and  had,  in  fact,  smelt  a  rat. 
Accordingly  he  was  ready  for  the  manikins.  There  he 
stood  at  the  barbican  of  his  castle,  with  formidable  beak 
couched  like  a  lance.  The  manikins  made  a  gallant 
charge.  "  What  '11  you  take  1  r'  was  rattled  out  by  the 
Mino,  in  a  deep  bass,  as  with  one  plunge  of  his  sharp  bill 
he  scattered  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  and  sent  three  of 
them  flying  to  the  floor,  where  they  lay  with  broken 
limbs.  But  the  manikins  were  brave  automata,  and  again 
they  closed  and  charged  the  gallant  Mino.  Again  the 
wicked  white  eyes  of  the  bird  gleamed,  and  again  the  or- 
ange bill  dealt  destruction.  Everything  seemed  to  be 
going  on  swimmingly  for  Mino,  when  he  found  himself 


206  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

attacked  in  the  rear  by  two  treacherous  manikins,  who 
had  stolen  upon  him  from  behind,  through  the  lattice- 
work of  the  cage.  Quick  as  lightning  the  Mino  turned 
to  repel  this  assault,  but  all  too  late ;  two  slender,  quiv- 
ering threads  of  steel  crossed  in  his  poor  body,  and  he 
staggered  into  a  corner  of  the  cage.  His  white  eyes 
closed,  then  opened ;  a  shiver  passed  over  his  body,  be- 
ginning at  his  shoulder-tips  and  dying  off  in  the  extreme 
tips  of  the  wings  ;  he  gasped  as  if  for  air,  and  then,  with 
a  convulsive  shudder,  which  ruffled  all  his  feathers,  croaked 
out  feebly  his  little  speech,  "  What  '11  you  take  ? "  In- 
stantly from  the  opposite  corner  came  the  old  response, 
still  feebler  than  the  question,  —  a  mere  gurgle,  as  it 
were,  of  "  Brandy  and  water."  Then  all  was  silent.  The 
Mino-birds  were  dead. 

"  They  spill  blood  like  Christians,"  said  the  Wonder- 
smith,  gazing  fondly  on  the  manikins.  "  They  will  be 
famous  assassins." 


V. 

TIED   UP. 

HERE  HIPPE  stood  in  the  doorway,  scowling.  His  eyes 
seemed  to  scorch  the  poor  hunchback,  whose  form,  physi- 
cally inferior,  crouched  before  that  baneful,  blazing  glance, 
while  its  head,  mentally  brave,  reared  itself  as  if  to  re- 
deem the  cowardice  of  the  frame  to  which  it  belonged. 
So  the  attitude  of  the  serpent :  the  body  pliant,  yielding, 
supple;  but  the  crest  thrown  aloft,  erect,  and  threaten- 
ing. As  for  Zonela,  she  was  frozen  in  the  attitude  of 
motion;  —  a  dancing  nymph  in  colored  marble;  agility 
stunned ;  elasticity  petrified. 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  207 

Furbelow,  astonished  at  this  sudden  change,  and  catch- 
ing, with  all  the  mysterious  rapidity  of  instinct  peculiar 
to  the  lower  animals,  at  the  enigmatical  character  of  the 
situation,  turned  his  pleading,  melancholy  eyes  from  one 
to  another  of  the  motionless  three,  as  if  begging  that  his 
humble  intellect  (pardon  me,  naturalists,  for  the  use  of 
this  word  "  intellect  "  in  the  matter  of  a  monkey  !)  should 
be  enlightened  as  speedily  as  possible.  Not  receiving 
the  desired  information,  he,  after  the  manner  of  trained 
animals,  returned  to  his  muttons ;  in  other  words,  he 
conceived  that  this  unusual  entrance,  and  consequent  dra- 
matic tableau,  meant  "shop."  He  therefore  dropped  Zo- 
nela's  hand,  and  pattered  on  his  velvety  little  feet  over 
towards  the  grim  figure  of  the  Wondersmith,  holding  out 
his  poor  little  paw  for  the  customary  copper.  He  had 
but  one  idea  drilled  into  him,  —  soulless  creature  that  he 
was,  —  and  that  was  alms.  But  I  have  seen  creatures 
that  professed  to  have  souls,  and  that  would  have  been 
indignant  if  you  had  denied  them  immortality,  who  took 
to  the  soliciting  of  alms  as  naturally  as  if  beggary  had 
been  the  original  sin,  and  was  regularly  born  with  them, 
and  never  baptized  out  of  them.  I  will  give  these  Ban- 
dits of  the  Order  of  Charity  this  credit,  however,  that 
they  knew  the  best  highways  and  the  richest  founts  of 
benevolence,  —  unlike  to  Furbelow,  who,  unreasoning  and 
undiscriminating,  begged  from  the  first  person  that  was 
near.  Furbelow,  owing  to  this  intellectual  inferiority  to 
the  before-mentioned  Alsatians,  frequently  got  more  kicks 
than  coppers,  and  the  present  supplication  which  he  in- 
dulged in  towards  the  Wondersmith  was  a  terrible  con- 
firmation of  the  rule.  The  reply  to  the  extended  pleading 
paw  was  what  might  be  called  a  double-barrelled  kick,  — 
a  kick  to  be  represented  by  the  power  of  two  when  the 


208  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

foot  touched  the  object,  multiplied  by  four  when  the  entire 
leg  formed  an  angle  of  45°  with  the  spinal  column.  The 
long,  nervous  leg  of  the  Wondersmith  caught  the  little 
creature  in  the  centre  of  the  body,  doubled  up  his  brown, 
hairy  form,  till  he  looked  like  a  fur  driving-glove,  and 
sent  him  whizzing  across  the  room  into  a  fur  corner, 
where  he  dropped  senseless  and  flaccid. 

This  vengeance  which  Herr  Hippe  executed  upon  Fur- 
below seemed  to  have  operated  as  a  sort  of  escape-valve, 
and  he  found  voice.  He  hissed  out  the  question,  "  Who 
are  you  1"  to  the  hunchback ;  and  in  listening  to  that 
essence  of  sibilation  it  really  seemed  as  if  it  proceeded 
from  the  serpent  that  curled  upon  his  upper  lip. 

"  Who  are  you  1  Deformed  dog,  who  are  you  1  What 
do  you  here  1 " 

"  My  name  is  Solon,"  answered  the  fearless  head  of  the 
hunchback,  while  the  frail,  cowardly  body  shivered  and 
trembled  inch  by  inch  into  a  corner. 

"  So  you  come  to  visit  my  daughter  in  the  night-time, 
when  I  am  away  1 "  continued  the  Woudersmith,  with  a 
sneering  tone  that  dropped  from  his  snake- wreathed  mouth 
like  poison.  "You  are  a  brave  and  gallant  lover,  are 
you  not?  Where  did  you  win  that  Order  of  the  Curse 
of  God  that  decorates  your  shoulders  1  The  women  turn 
their  heads  and  look  after  you  in  the  street,  when  you 
pass,  do  they  not  1  lost  in  admiration  of  that  symmetrical 
figure,  those  graceful  limbs,  that  neck  pliant  as  the  stem 
that  moors  the  lotus !  Elegant,  conquering,  Christian 
cripple,  what  do  you  here  in  my  daughter's  room  1 " 

Can  you  imagine  Jove,  limitless  in  power  and  wrath, 
hurling  from  his  vast  grasp  mountain  after  mountain  upon 
the  struggling  Enceladus,  —  and  picture  the  Titan  sink- 
ing, sinking,  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  earth,  crushed 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  209 

and  dying,  with  nothing  visible  through  the  superincum- 
bent masses  of  Pelion  -and  Ossa  but  a  gigantic  head  and 
two  flaming  eyes,  that,  despite  the  death  which  is  creep- 
ing through  each  vein,  still  flash  back  defiance  to  the  di- 
vine enemy  1  Well,  Solon  and  Herr  Hippe  presented  such 
a  picture,  seen  through  the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  — 
reduced  in  proportion,  but  alike  in  action.  Solon's  feeble 
body  seemed  to  sink  into  utter  annihilation  beneath  the 
horrible  taunts  that  his  enemy  hurled  at  him,  while  the 
large,  brave  brow  and  unconquered  eyes  still  sent  forth  a 
magnetic  resistance. 

Suddenly  the  poor  hunchback  felt  his  arm  grasped. 
A  thrill  seemed  to  run  through  his  entire  body.  A  warm 
atmosphere,  invigorating  and  full  of  delicious  odor,  sur- 
rounded him.  It  appeared  as  if  invisible  bandages  were 
twisted  all  about  his  limbs,  giving  him  a  strange  strength. 
His  sinking  legs  straightened.  His  powerless  arms  were 
braced.  Astonished,  he  glanced  round  for  an  instant,  and 
beheld  Zonela,  with  a  world  of  love  burning  in  her  large 
lambent  eyes,  wreathing  her  round  white  arms  about  his 
humped  shoulders.  Then  the  poet  knew  the  great  sus- 
taining power  of  love.  Solon  reared  himself  boldly. 

"  Sneer  at  my  poor  form,"  he  cried,  in  strong  vibrating 
tones,  flinging  out  one  long  arm  and  one  thin  finger  at 
the  Wondersmith,  as  if  he  would  have  impaled  him  like  a 
beetle.  "Humiliate  me  if  you  can.  I  care  not.  You 
are  a  wretch,  and  I  am  honest  and  pure.  This  girl  is  not 
your  daughter.  You  are  like  one  of  those  demons  in  the 
fairy  tales  that  held  beauty  and  purity  locked  in  infernal 
spells.  I  do  not  fear  you,  Herr  Hippe.  There  are  stories 
abroad  about  you  in  the  neighborhood,  and  when  you 
pass  people  say  that  they  feel  evil  and  blight  hovering 
over  their  thresholds.  You  persecute  this  girl.  You  are 

14 


210  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

her  tyrant.  You  hate  her.  I  am  a  cripple.  Providence 
has  cast  this  lump  upon  my  shoulders.  But  that  is 
nothing.  The  camel,  that  is  the  salvation  of  the  children 
of  the  desert,  has  been  given  his  hump  in  order  that  he 
might  bear  his  human  burden  better.  This  girl,  who  is 
homeless  as  the  Arab,  is  my  appointed  load  in  life,  and, 
please  God,  I  will  carry  her  on  this  back,  hunched  though 
it  may  be.  I  have  come  to  see  her  because  I  love  her,  — 
because  she  loves  me.  You  have  no  claim  on  her  ;  so  I 
will  take  her  from  you." 

Quick  as  lightning  the  Wondersmith  had  stridden  a 
few  paces,  and  grasped  the  poor  cripple,  who  was  yet 
quivering  with  the  departing  thunder  of  his  passion.  He 
seized  him  in  his  bony,  muscular  grasp,  as  he  would  have 
seized  a  puppet,  and  held  him  at  arm's  length,  gasping 
and  powerless ;  while  Zone'la,  pale,  breathless,  entreating, 
sank  half-kneeling  on  the  floor. 

"  Your  skeleton  will  be  interesting  to  science  when  you 
are  dead,  Mr.  Solon/'  hissed  the  Wondersmith.  "  But 
before  I  have  the  pleasure  of  reducing  you  to  an  anatomy, 
which  I  will  assuredly  do,  I  wish  to  compliment  you  on 
your  power  of  penetration,  or  sources  of  information ;  for 
I  know  not  if  you  have  derived  your  knowledge  from  your 
own  mental  research  or  the  efforts  of  others.  You  are 
perfectly  correct  in  your  statement  that  this  charming 
young  person,  who  day  after  day  parades  the  streets  with 
a  barrel-organ  and  a  monkey,  —  the  last  unhappily  in- 
disposed at  present,  — listening  to  the  degrading  jokes  of 
ribald  boys  and  depraved  men,  —  you  are  quite  correct, 
sir,  in  stating  that  she  is  not  my  daughter.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  is  the  daughter  of  an  Hungarian  nobleman 
who  had  the  misfortune  to  incur  my  displeasure.  I  had 
a  son,  crooked  spawn  of  a  Christian  !  —  a  son,  not  like 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  211 

you,  cankered,  gnarled  stump  of  life  that  you  are,  —  but 
a  youth  tall  and  fair  and  noble  in  aspect,  as  became  a 
child  of  one  whose  lineage  makes  Pharaoh  modern, — 
a  youth  whose  foot  in  the  dance  was  as  swift  and  beauti- 
ful to  look  at  as  the  golden  sandals  of  the  sun  when  he 
dances  upon  the  sea  in  summer.  This  youth  was  virtuous 
and  good  ;  and  being  of  good  race,  and  dwelling  in  a 
country  where  his  rank,  gypsy  as  he  was,  was  recognized, 
he  mixed  with  the  proudest  of  the  land.  One  day  he  fell 
in  with  this  accursed  Hungarian,  a  fierce  drinker  of  that 
devil's  blood  called  brandy*  My  child  until  that  hour 
had  avoided  this  bane  of  our  race.  Generous  wine  he 
drank,  because  the  soul  of  the  sun,  our  ancestor,  palpi- 
tated in  its  purple  waves.  But  brandy,  which  is  fallen 
and  accursed  wine,  as  devils  are  fallen  and  accursed  an- 
gels, had  never  crossed  his  lips,  until  in  an  evil  hour  he 
was  seduced  by  this  Christian  hog,  and  from  that  day 
forth  his  life  was  one  fiery  debauch,  which  set  only  in 
the  black  waves  of  death.  I  vowed  vengeance  on  the 
destroyer  of  my  child,  and  I  kept  my  word.  I  have 
destroyed  his  child,  —  not  compassed  her  death,  but 
blighted  her  life,  steeped  her  in  misery  and  poverty,  and 
now,  thanks  to  the  thousand  devils,  I  have  discovered  a 
new  torture  for  her  heart.  She  thought  to  solace  her 
life  with  a  love-episode  !  Sweet  little  epicure  that  she 
was !  She  shall  have  her  little  crooked  lover,  sha'n't 
she  1  0,  yes !  she  shall  have  him,  cold  and  stark  and 
livid,  with  that  great,  black,  heavy  hunch,  which  no 
back,  however  broad,  can  bear,  Death,  sitting  between  his 
shoulders  ! " 

There  was  something  so  awful  and  demoniac  in  this 
entire  speech  and  the  manner  in  which  it  was  delivered, 
that  it  petrified  Zonela  into  a  mere  inanimate  figure, 


212  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

whose  eyes  seemed  unalterably  fixed  on  the  fierce,  cruel 
face  of  the  Wondersmith.  As  for  Solon,  he  was  para- 
lyzed in  the  grasp  of  his  foe.  He  heard,  but  could  not 
reply.  His  large  eyes,  dilated  with  horror  to  far  beyond 
their  ordinary  size,  expressed  unutterable  agony. 

The  last  sentence  had  hardly  been  hissed  out  by  the 
gypsy  when  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  long,  thin  coil  of 
whip-cord,  which  he  entangled  in  a  complicated  mesh 
around  the  cripple's  body.  It  was  not  the  ordinary  bind- 
ing of  a  prisoner.  The  sf  ender  lash  passed  and  repassed 
in  a  thousand  intricate  folds*over  the  powerless  limbs  of 
the  poor  humpback.  When  the  operation  was  completed, 
he  looked  as  if  he  had  been  sewed  from  head  to  foot  in 
some  singularly  ingenious  species  of  network. 

"  Now,  my  pretty  lop-sided  little  lover,"  laughed  Herr 
Hippe,  flinging  Solon  over  his  shoulder  as  a  fisherman 
might  fling  a  netful  of  fish,  "  we  will  proceed  to  put  you 
into  your  little  cage  until  your  little  coffin  is  quite  ready. 
Meanwhile  we  will  lock  up  your  darling  beggar-girl  to 
mourn  over  your  untimely  end." 

So  saying,  he  stepped  from  the  room  with  his  captive, 
and  securely  locked  the  door  behind  him. 

When  he  had  disappeared,  the  frozen  Zonela  thawed, 
and  with  a  shriek  of  anguish  flung  herself  on  the  inani- 
mate body  of  Furbelow. 


VI. 

THE   POISONING   OP   THE   SWORDS. 

IT  was  New  Year's  eve,  and  eleven  o'clock  at  night. 
All  over  this  great  land,  and  in  every  great  city  in  the 
land,  curly  heads  were  lying  on  white  pillows,  dreaming 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  213 

of  the  coming  of  the  generous  Santa  Glaus.  Innumerable 
stockings  hung  by  countless  bedsides.  Visions  of  beauti- 
ful toys,  passing  in  splendid  pageantry  through  myriads 
of  dimly  lit  dormitories,  made  millions  of  little  hearts 
palpitate  in  sleep.  Ah  !  what  heavenly  toys  those  were 
that  the  children  of  this  soil  beheld,  that  mystic  night, 
in  their  dreams!  Painted  cars  with  orchestral  wheels, 
making  music  more  delicious  than  the  roll  of  planets. 
Agile  men,  of  cylindrical  figure,  who  sprang  unexpectedly 
out  of  meek-looking  boxes,  with  a  supernatural  fierceness 
in  their  crimson  cheeks  and  fur-whiskers.  Herds  of  mar- 
vellous sheep,  with  fleeces  as  impossible  as  the  one  that 
Juson  sailed  after ;  animals  entirely  indifferent  to  grass 
and  water  and  "rot"  and  "ticks."  Horses  spotted  with 
an  astounding  regularity,  and  furnished^  with  the  most 
ingenious  methods  of  locomotion.  Slender  foreigners, 
attired  in  painfully  short  tunics,  whose  existence  passed 
in  continually  turning  heels  over  head  down  a  steep  flight 
of  steps,  at  the  bottom  of  which  they  lay  in  an  exhausted 
condition  with  dislocated  limbs,  imtil  they  were  restored 
to  their  former  elevation,  when  they  went  at  it  again  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  Stately  swans,  that  seemed  to 
have  a  touch  of  the  ostrich  in  them ;  for  they  swam  con- 
tinually after  a  piece  of  iron  which  was  held  before  them, 
as  if  consumed  with  a  ferruginous  hunger.  Whole  farm- 
yards of  roosters,  whose  tails  curled  the  wrong  way,  —  a 
slight  defect,  that  was,  however,  amply  atoned  for  by  the 
size  and  brilliancy  of  their  scarlet  combs,  which,  it  would 
appear,  Providence  had  intended  for  pen-wipers.  Pears, 
that,  when  applied  to  youthful  lips,  gave  forth  sweet  and 
inspiring  sounds.  Regiments  of  soldiers,  that  performed 
neat  but  limited  evolutions  on  cross-jointed  contractile 
battle-fields.  All  these  things,  idealized,  transfigured, 


214  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

and  illuminated  by  the  powers  and  atmosphere  and  col- 
ored lamps  of  dream-land,  did  the  millions  of  dear  sleeping 
children  behold,  the  night  of  the  New  Year's  eve  of  which 
I  speak. 

It  was  on  this  night,  when  Time  was  preparing  to  shed 
his  skin,  and  come  out  young  and  golden  and  glossy  as 
ever,  —  when,  in  the  vast  chambers  of  the  universe,  silent 
and  infallible  preparations  were  making  for  the  wonderful 
birth  of  the  coming  year,  —  when  mystic  dews  were  se- 
creted for  his  baptism,  and  mystic  instruments  were  tuned 
in  space  to  welcome  him,  —  it  was  at  this  holy  and  solemn 
hour  that  the  Wondersmith  and  his  three  gypsy  compan- 
ions sat  in  close  conclave  in  the  little  parlor  before  men- 
tioned. 

There  was  a  fire  roaring  in  the  grate.  On  a  table, 
nearly  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  stood  a  huge  decanter 
of  port  wine,  that  glowed  in  the  blaze  which  lit  the 
chamber  like  a  flask  of  crimson  fire.  On  every  side,  piled 
in  heaps,  inanimate,  but  scowling  with  the  same  old  won- 
drous scowl,  lay  myriads  of  the  manikins,  all  clutching  in 
their  wooden  hands  their  tiny  weapons.  The  Wonder- 
smith  held  in  one  hand  a  small  silver  bowl  filled  with  a 
green,  glutinous  substance,  which  he  was  delicately  apply- 
ing, with  the  aid  of  a  camel's-hair  brush,  to  the  tips  of 
tiny  swords  and  daggers.  A  horrible  smile  wandered 
over  his  sallow  face,  —  a  smile  as  unwholesome  in  appear- 
ance as  the  sickly  light  that  plays  above  reeking  grave- 
yards. 

"Let  us  drink  great  draughts,  brothers,"  he  cried, 
leaving  off  his  strange  anointment  for  a  while,  to  lift  a 
great  glass,  filled  with  sparkling  liquor,  to  his  lips.  "  Let 
us  drink  to  our  approaching  triumph.  Let  us  drink  to 
the  great  poison,  Macousha,  Subtle  seed  of  Death,  — 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  215 

swift  hurricane  that  sweeps  away  Life,  —  vast  hammer 
that  crushes  brain  and  heart* and  artery  with  its  resistless 
weight,  —  I  drink  to  it." 

"It  is  a  noble  decoction,  Duke  Balthazar,"  said  the  old 
fortune-teller  and  midwife,  Madame  Filomel,  nodding  in 
her  chair  as  she  swallowed  her  wine  in  great  gulps. 
"Where  did  you  obtain. it  1" 

"It  is  made,"  said  the  Wondersmith,  swallowing  an- 
other great  draught  of  wine  ere  he  replied,  "  in  the  wild 
woods  of  Guiana,  in  silence  and  in  mystery.  But  one 
tribe  of  Indians,  the  Macoushi  Indians,  know  the  secret. 
It  is  simmered  over  fires  built  of  strange  woods,  and  the 
maker  of  it  dies  in  the  making.  The  place,  for  a  mile 
around  the  spot  where  it  is  fabricated,  is  shunned  as 
accursed.  Devils  hover  over  the  pot  in  which  it  stews ; 
and  the  birds  of  the  air,  scenting  the  smallest  breath  of 
its  vapor  from  far  away,  drop  to  earth  with  paralyzed 
wings,  cold  and  dead." 

"  It  kills,  then,  fast  1 "  asked  Kerplonne,  the  artificial- 
eye  maker,  —  his  own  eyes  gleaming,  under  the  influence 
of  the  wine,  with  a  sinister  lustre,  as  if  they  had  been 
fresh  from  the  factory,  and  were  yet  untarnished  by  use. 

"  Kills  1 "  echoed  the  Wondersmith,  derisively ;  "  it  is 
swifter  than  thunderbolts,  stronger  than  lightning.  But 
you  shall  see  it  proved  before  we  let  forth  our  army  on 
the  city  accursed.  You  shall  see  a  wretch  die,  as  if  smit- 
ten by  a  falling  fragment  of  the  sun." 

"  What  1  Do  you  mean  Solon  ] "  asked  Oaksmith  and 
the  fortune-teller  together. 

"  Ah  !  you  mean  the  young  man  who  makes  the  com- 
merce with  books  1"  echoed  Kerplonne.  "It  is  well. 
His  agonies  will  instruct  us." 

"  Yes  !  Solon,"  answered  Hippe,  with  a  savage  accent. 


216  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

"  I  hate  him,  and  he  shall  die  this  horrid  death.  Ah ! 
how  the  little  fellows  will  leap  upon  him,  when  I  bring 
him  in,  bound  and  helpless,  and  give  their  beautiful 
wicked  souls  to  them  !  How  they  will  pierce  him  in  ten 
thousand  spots  with  their  poisoned  weapons,  until  his 
skin  turns  blue  and  violet  and  crimson,  and  his  form 
swells  with  the  venom,  —  until  his  hump  is  lost  in  shape- 
less flesh  !  He  hears  what  I  say,  every  word  of  it.  He 
is  in  the  closet  next  door,  and  is  listening.  How  com- 
fortable he  feels  !  How  the  sweat  of  terror  rolls  on  his 
brow  !  How  he  tries  to  loosen  his  bonds,  and  curses  all 
earth  and  heaven  when  he  finds  that  he  cannot !  Ho  ! 
ho  !  Handsome  lover  of  Zon£la,  will  she  kiss  you  when 
you  are  livid  and  swollen  1  Brothers,  let  us  drink  again, 
—  drink  always.  Here,  Oaksmith,  take  these  brushes,  — 
and  you,  Filomel,  —  and  finish  the  anointing  of  these 
swords.  This  wine  is  grand.  This  poison  is  grand.  It 
is  fine  to  have  good  wine  to  drink,  and  good  poison  to 
kill  with ;  is  it  not  1 "  —  and,  with  flushed  face  and  rolling 
eyes,  the  Wondersmith  continued  to  drink  and  use  his 
brush  alternately. 

The  others  hastened  to  follow  his  example.  It  was  a 
horrible  scene :  those  four  wicked  faces ;  those  myriads 
of  tiny  faces,  just  as  wicked  ;  the  certain  unearthly  air 
that  pervaded  the  apartment ;  the  red,  unwholesome  glare 
cast  by  the  fire ;  the  wild  and  reckless  way  in  which  the 
weird  company  drank  the  red-illumined  wine. 

The  anointing  of  the  swords  went  on  rapidly,  and  the 
wine  went  as  rapidly  down  the  throats  of  the  four  poison- 
ers. Their  faces  grew  more  and  more  inflamed  each 
instant ;  their  eyes  shone  like  rolling  fireballs  ;  their  hair 
was  moist  and  dishevelled.  The  old  fortune-teller  rocked 
to  and  fro  in  her  chair,  like  those  legless  plaster  figures 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  217 

that  sway  upon  convex  loaded  bottoms.  All  four  began 
to  mutter  incoherent  sentences,  and  babble  unintelligi- 
ble wickednesses.  Still  the  anointing  of  the  swords 
went  on. 

"  I  see  the  faces  of  millions  of  young  corpses,"  babbled 
Herr  Hippe,  gazing,  with  swimming  eyes,  into  the  silver 
bowl  that  contained  the  Macousha  poison,  —  "  all  young, 
all  Christians,  —  and  the  little  fellows  dancing,  dancing, 
and  stabbing,  stabbing.  Filomel,  Filomel,  I  say  !  " 

"  Well,  Grand  Duke,"  snored  the  old  woman,  giving  a 
violent  lurch. 

"  Where  's  the  bottle  of  souls  ?" 

"  In  my  right-hand  pocket,  Herr  Hippe" ;  —  and  she  felt, 
so  as  to  assure  herself  that  it  was  there.  She  half  drew 
out  the  black  bottle,  before  described  in  this  narrative, 
and  let  it  slide  again  into  her  pocket,  —  let  it  slide  again, 
but  it  did  not  completely  regain  its  former  place.  Caught 
by  some  accident,  it  hung  half  out,  swaying  over  the  edge 
of  the  pocket,  as  the  fat  midwife  rolled  backwards  and 
forwards  in  her  drunken  efforts  at  equilibrium. 

"  All  right,"  said  Herr  Hippe,  "  perfectly  right !  Let 's 
drink." 

He  reached  out  his  hand  for  his  glass,  and,  with  a  dull 
sigh,  dropped  on  the  table,  in  the  instantaneous  slumber 
of  intoxication.  Oaksmith  soon  fell  back  in  his  chair, 
breathing  heavily.  Kerplonne  followed.  And  the  heavy, 
stertorous  breathing  of  Filomel  told  that  she  slumbered 
also ;  but  still  her  chair  retained  its  rocking  motion,  and 
still  the  bottle  of  souls  balanced  itself  on  the  edge  of  her 
pocket. 


218  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

VII. 

LET   LOOSE. 

SURE  enough,  Solon  heard  every  word  of  the  fiendish 
talk  of  the  Wondersmith.  For  how  many  days  he  had 
been  shut  up,  bound  in  the  terrible  net,  in  that  dark 
closet,  he  did  not  know ;  but  now  he  felt  that  his  last 
hour  was  come.  His  little  strength  was  completely  worn 
out  in  efforts  to  disentangle  himself.  Once  a  day  a  door 
opened,  and  Herr  Hippe  placed  a  crust  of  bread  and  a 
cup  of  water  within  his  reach.  On  this  meagre  fare  he 
had  subsisted.  It  was  a  hard  life ;  but,  bad  as  it  was,  it 
was  better  than  the  horrible  death  that  menaced  him. 
His  brain  reeled  with  terror  at  the  prospect  of  it.  Then, 
where  was  Zonela  ?  Why  did  she  not  come  to  his  rescue  1 
But  she  was,  perhaps,  dead.  The  darkness,  too,  appalled 
him.  A  faint  light,  when  the  moon  was  bright,  came  at 
night  through  a  chink  far  up  in  the  wall ;  and  the  only 
other  hole  in  the  chamber  was  an  aperture  through  which, 
at  some  former  time,  a  stove-pipe  had  been  passed.  Even 
if  he  were  free,  there  would  have  been  small  hope  of  es- 
cape ;  but,  laced  as  it  were  in  a  network  of  steel,  what 
was  to  be  done?  He  groaned  and  writhed  upon  the  floor, 
and  tore  at  the  boards  with  his  hands,  which  were  free 
from  the  wrists  down.  All  else  was  as  solidly  laced  up 
as  an  Indian  pappoose.  Nothing  but  pride  kept  him  from 
shrieking  aloud,  when,  on  the  night  of  New  Year's  eve, 
he  heard  the  fiendish  Hippe  recite  the  programme  of  his 
murder. 

While  he  was  thus  wailing  and  gnashing  his  teeth  in 
darkness  and  torture,  he  heard  a  faint  noise  above  his 
head.  Then  something  seemed  to  leap  from  the  ceiling 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  219 

and  alight  softly  on  the  floor.  He  shuddered  with  ter- 
ror. Was  it  some  new  torture  of  the  Wondersmith's  in- 
vention 1  The  next  moment,  he  felt  some  small  animal 
crawling  over  his  body,  and  a  soft,  silky  paw  was  pushed 
timidly  across  his  face.  His  heart  leaped  with  joy. 

"  It  is  Furbelow ! "  he  cried.  "  Zonela  has  sent  him. 
He  came  through  the  stove-pipe  hole." 

It  was  Furbelow,  indeed,  restored  to  life  by  Zonela's 
care,  and  who  had  come  down  a  narrow  tube,  that  no 
human  being  could  have  threaded,  to  console  the  poor 
captive.  The  monkey  nestled  closely  into  the  hunch- 
back's bosom,  and,  as  he  did  so,  Solon  felt  something 
cold  and  hard  hanging  from  his  neck.  He  touched  it. 
It  was  sharp.  By  the  dim  light  that  struggled  through 
the  aperture  high  up  in  the  wall,  he  discovered  a  knife, 
suspended  by  a  bit  of  cord.  Ah !  how  the  blood  came 
rushing  through  the  veins  that  crossed  over  and  through 
his  heart,  when  life  and  liberty  came  to  him  in  this  bit 
of  rusty  steel !  With  his  manacled  hands  he  loosened 
the  heaven-sent  weapon;  a  few  cuts  were  rapidly  made 
in  the  cunning  network  of  cord  that  enveloped  his  limbs, 
and  in  a  few  seconds  he  was  free !  —  cramped  and  faint 
with  hunger,  but  free  !  —  free  to  move,  to  use  the  limbs 
that  God  had  given  him  for  his  preservation,  —  free  to 
fight,  —  to  die  fighting,  perhaps,  —  but  still  to  die  free. 
He  ran  to  the  door.  The  bolt  was  a  weak  one,  for  the 
Woudersmith  had  calculated  more  surely  on  his  prison 
of  cords  than  on  any  jail  of  stone,  —  and  more ;  and 
with  a  few  efforts  the  door  opened.  He  went  cautiously 
out  into  the  darkness,  with  Furbelow  perched  on  his 
shoulder,  pressing  his  cold  muzzle  against  his  cheek.  He 
had  made  but  a  few  steps  when  a  trembling  hand  was 
put  into  his,  and  in  another  moment  Zonela's  palpitating 


220  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

heart  was  pressed  against  his  own.  One  long  kiss,  an 
embrace,  a  few  whispered  words,  and  the  hunchback  and 
the  girl  stole  softly  towards  the  door  of  the  chamber  in 
which  the  four  gypsies  slept.  All  seemed  still ;  nothing 
but  the  hard  breathing  of  the  sleepers  and  the  monoto- 
nous rocking  of  Madame  Filomel's  chair  broke  the  silence. 
Solon  stooped  down  and  put  his  eye  to  the  keyhole, 
through  which  a  red  bar  of  light  streamed  into  the  entry. 
As  he  did  so,  his  foot  crushed  some  brittle  substance  that 
lay  just  outside  the  door;  at  the  same  moment  a  howl  of 
agony  was  heard  to  issue  from  the  room  within.  Solon 
started ;  nor  did  he  know  that  at  that  instant  he  had 
crushed  into  dust  Monsieur  Kerplonne's  supernumerary 
eye,  and  the  owner,  though  wrapt  in  a  drunken  sleep, 
felt  the  pang  quiver  through  his  brain. 

While  Solon  peeped  through  the  keyhole,  all  in  the 
room  was  motionless.  He  had  not  gazed,  however,  for 
many  seconds,  when  the  chair  of  the  fortune-teller  gave  a 
sudden  lurch,  and  the  black  bottle,  already  hanging  half 
out  of  her  wide  pocket,  slipped  entirely  from  its  resting- 
place,  and,  falling  heavily  to  the  ground,  shivered  into 
fragments. 

Then  took  place  an  astonishing  spectacle.  The  myriads 
of  armed  dolls,  that  lay  in  piles  about  the  room,  became 
suddenly  imbued  with  motion.  They  stood  up  straight, 
their  tiny  limbs  moved,  their  black  eyes  flashed  with 
wicked  purposes,  their  thread-like  swords  gleamed  as  they 
waved  them  to  and  fro.  The  villanous  souls  imprisoned 
in  the  bottle  began  to  work  within  them.  Like  the  Lili- 
putians,  when  they  found  the  giant  Gulliver  asleep,  they 
scaled  in  swarms  the  burly  sides  of  the  four  sleeping 
gypsies.  At  every  step  they  took,  they  drove  thgir  thin 
swords  and  quivering  daggers  into  the  flesh  of  the  drunken 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  221 

authors  of  their  being.  To  stab  and  kill  was  their  mis- 
sion, and  they  stabbed  and  killed  with  incredible  fury. 
They  clustered  on  the  Wondersmith's  sallow  cheeks  and 
sinewy  throat,  piercing  every  portion  with  their  diminu- 
tive poisoned  blades.  Filomel's  fat  carcass  was  alive 
with  them.  They  blackened  the  spare  body  of  Monsieur 
Kerplonne.  They  covered  Oaksmith's  huge  form  like  a 
cluster  of  insects. 

Overcome  completely  with  the  fumes  of  wine,  these 
tiny  wounds  did  not  for  a  few  moments  awaken  the  sleep- 
ing victims.  But  the  swift  and  deadly  poison  Macousha, 
with  which  the  weapons  had  been  so  fiendishly  anointed, 
began  to  work.  Herr  Hippe,  stung  into  sudden  life, 
leaped  to  his  feet,  with  a  dwarf  army  clinging  to  his 
clothes  and  his  hands,  —  always  stabbing,  stabbing,  stab- 
bing. For  an  instant,  a  look  of  stupid  bewilderment 
clouded  his  face ;  then  the  horrible  truth  burst  upon  him. 
He  gave  a  shriek  like  that  which  a  horse  utters  when  he 
finds  himself  fettered  and  surrounded  by  fire,  —  a  shriek 
that  curdled  the  air  for  miles  and  miles. 

"  Oaksmith  !  Kerplonne  !  Filomel !  Awake  !  awake  ! 
We  are  lost !  The  souls  have  got  loose  !  We  are  dead  ! 
poisoned  !  0  accursed  ones  !  0  demons,  ye  are  slaying 
me  !  Ah !  fiends  of  hell  !  " 

Aroused  by  these  frightful  howls,  the  three  gypsies 
sprang  also  to  their  feet,  to  find  themselves  stung  to 
death  by  the  manikins.  They  raved,  they  shrieked,  they 
swore.  They  staggered  round  the  chamber.  Blinded  in 
the  eyes  by  the  ever-stabbing  weapons, — \vith  the  poi- 
son already  burning  in  their  veins  like  red-hot  lead,  — 
their  forms  swelling  and  discoloring  visibly  every  mo- 
ment, —  their  howls  and  attitudes  and  furious  gestures 
made  the  scene  look  like  a  chamber  in  hell. 


222  THE  WONDERSMITH. 

Maddened  beyond  endurance,  the  Wondersmith,  half- 
blind  and  choking  with  the  venom  that  had  congested 
all  the  blood-vessels  of  his  body,  seized  dozens  of  the 
manikins  and  dashed  them  into  the  fire,  trampling  them 
down  with  his  feet. 

"  Ye  shall  die  too,  if  I  die,"  he  cried,  with  a  roar  like 
that  of  a  tiger.     "  Ye  shall  bum,  if  I  burn.     I  gave  ye 
life,  —  I  give  ye  death.      Down  !  —  down  !  —  burn  !  — 
flame  !     Fiends  that  ye  are,  to  slay  us  !     Help  me,  broth- 
ers !     Before  we  die,  let  us  have  our  revenge  !  " 

On  this,  the  other  gypsies,  themselves  maddened  by 
approaching  death,  began  hurling  manikins,  by  handfuls, 
into  the  fire.  The  little  creatures,  being  wooden  of  body, 
quickly  caught  the  flames,  and  an  awfnl  struggle  for  life 
took  place  in  miniature  in  the  grate.  Some  of  them  es- 
caped from  between  the  bars  and  ran  about  the  room, 
blazing,  writhing  in  agony,  and  igniting  the  curtains  and 
other  draperies  that  hung  around.  Others  fought  and 
stabbed  one  another  in  the  very  core  of  the  fire,  like 
combating  salamanders.  Meantime,  the  motions  of  the 
gypsies  grew  more  languid  and  slow,  and  their  curses 
were  uttered  in  choked  guttural  tones.  The  faces  of  all 
four  were  spotted  with  red  and  green  and  violet,  like 
so  many  egg-plants.  Their  bodies  were  swollen  to  a 
frightful  size,  and  at  last  they  dropped  on  the  floor,  like 
over-ripe  fruit  shaken  from  the  boughs  by  the  winds  of 
autumn. 

The  chamber  was  now  a  sheet  of  fire.  The  flames 
roared  round  and  round,  as  if  seeking  for  escape,  licking 
every  projecting  cornice  and  sill  with  greedy  tongues,  as 
the  serpent  licks  his  prey  before  he  swallows  it.  A  hot, 
putrid  breath  came  through  the  keyhole,  and  smote 
Solon  and  Zonela  like  a  wind  of  death.  They  clasped 


THE  WONDERSMITH.  223 

each  other's  hands  with  a  moan  of  terror,  and  fled  from 
the  house. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  young  year  was  just  un- 
closing its  eyes,  and  the  happy  children  all  over  the  great 
city  were  peeping  from  their  beds  into  the  myriads  of 
stockings  hanging  near  by,  the  blue  skies  of  heaven  shone 
through  a  black  network  of  stone  and  charred  rafters. 
These  were  all  that  remained  of  the  habitation  of  Herr 
Hippe,  the  Wondersmith. 


224  TOMMATOO. 


TOMMATOO. 
I. 

THE  HOUSE   BY   THE   STONE-YARD. 

A  FAIRY  that  had  lost  the  power  of  vanishing,  and  was 
obliged  to  remain  ever  present,  doing  continual  good ;  a 
cricket  on  the  hearth,  chirping  through  heat  and  cold  ; 
an  animated  amulet,  sovereign  against  misfortune ;  a 
Santa  Glaus,  without  the  wrinkles,  but  young  and  beauti- 
ful, choosing  the  darkest  moments  to  leap  right  into  one's 
heart,  and  drop  there  the  prettiest  moral  playthings  to 
gladden  and  make  gay,  —  such,  in  my  humble  opinion, 
was  Tommatoo. 

As  yet  I  do  not  ask  the  reader  to  agree  with  me ;  for 
over  him  I  have  this  one  great  advantage,  —  I  know  who 
Tommatoo  is.  When,  however,  he  makes  her  acquaint- 
ance also,  hears  her  twitter  round  the  house,  beholds  the 
flash  of  her  large  dusky-gray  eyes,  is  wonder-struck  at  the 
marvellous  twinkling  of  her  ever-dancing  little  feet,  he 
can  take  his  choice  of  all  the  personifications  with  which 
I  began  this  story,  and  I  feel  convinced  that  he  will  select 
the  most  beautiful  to  enrobe  Tommatoo. 

There  is  (or  rather  was,  six  years  ago,  when  the  inci- 
dents to  be  narrated  took  place,  —  but  I  shall  narrate 
them  in  the  present  tense)  a  vast  flat  of  land  stretching 
along  the  New  York  shore  of  the  North  River,  close  to 
where  Thirty-Second  Street  vanishes  into  a  swamp,  in 


TOMMATOO.  225 

which  unborn  avenues  are  supposed  to  be  slowly  matur- 
ing. Although  yet  in  embryo,  they  are  already  chris- 
tened, and  city  engineers  have  imaginative  ground-plans 
hanging  on  their  walls,  where  Twelfth  and  Thirteenth 
Avenues  are  boldly  represented,  with  as  much  minuteness 
as  Fifth  or  Sixth.  Should,  however,  any  sanguine  person 
be  led  by  those  delusive  maps  to  seek  for  such  mythical 
thoroughfares,  Ponce  de  Leon,  after  his  pursuit  of  the 
Fountain  of  Youth,  would  not  offer  a  more  striking 
example  of  ill-success.  On  reaching  the  spot  where  im- 
agination depicted  the  long  perspective  of  rails,  with 
crowded  and  hurrying  cars  gliding  smoothly  to  and  fro, 
he  would  behold  this  vision  of  civic  activity  replaced  by 
the  dreary  and  mysterious  waste  I  have  spoken  of,  with- 
out even  a  sign-post  pointing  to  the  splendid  future  re- 
served for  it  by  city  surveyors. 

This  tract  of  land  is  perhaps  the  most  melancholy  and 
mysterious  spot  in  the  whole  city.  The  different  streets 
that  cross  the  island  pull  up,  as  it  were,  suddenly  on 
reaching  this  dreary  place,  seemingly  afraid  to  trust 
themselves  any  further.  The  buildings  that  approach 
nearest  to  its  confines  are  long,  low  ranges  of  fetid 
slaughter-houses,  where  on  Sundays  bloated  butcher-boys 
lounge  against  the  walls ;  and  on  week-days  one  hears 
through  the  closed  doors  the  muffled  blow,  the  heavy  fall 
of  the  oxen  within  ;  the  groan,  and  the  hard-drawn  breath  ; 
and  then  a  red,  sluggish  stream  trickles  out  from  under 
the  doorway  and  flows  into  the  gutter,  where  hungry  dogs 
wait  impatiently  to  lap  it  up.  The  murderous  atmosphere, 
these  smells  of  blood,  seem  appropriate  enough  as  one 
approaches  this  desolate  locality. 

A  great  plain  of  red,  swampy  clay  is  covered  here  and 
there  with  numberless  huge,  helpless  beams  of  timber,  — 

15 


226  TOMMATOO. 

some  floating  like  dead  rafts  in  the  stream,  and  chained 
to  the  bank ;  others  high  and  dry,  blackening  in  the  sun, 
and  shadowing  criminal-looking  dogs  that  skulk  in  and 
out  among  them  all  day  long.  One  or  two  immature 
piers  jut  out  into  the  river  here  and  there,  and  grimy 
sloops  that  seem  to  have  no  particular  trade,  unless  it  is 
to  rot  calmly  at  their  moorings,  lie  alongside,  and  grate 
and  chafe  lazily  against  the  slimy  logs.  A  few  homeless 
boys,  with  smeared  faces  and  thin,  starved  arms,  who 
seem  to  have  dressed  themselves  in  the  rags  and  kite-tails 
that  flutter  on  telegraph-wires,  lie  on  the  sunny  sides  of 
the  timber  piles  sleeping  away  hunger,  or  sometimes  sit 
on  the  edges  of  the  green  piers  languidly  fishing  for  some- 
thing which  they  never  catch.  Cinders  most  unaccounta- 
bly prevail  all  over  the  place ;  they  crackle  under  the 
feet,  and  the  dogs  gather  round  occasional  piles  of  them, 
growling  over  a  burned  bone  lying  in  the  ashes  :  where 
they  come  from  is  not  to  be  known.  There  are  no  houses, 
no  factories,  and  the  rotting  sloops  are  so  damp  and  slimy 
that  it  woul$  be  a  mockery  to  suppose  a  fire  had  ever 
been  lit  in  any  one  of  them.  Nevertheless  the  cinders 
prevail;  and  at  certain  hours  in  the  day  two  or  three 
crouching  creatures  wander  slowly  among  the  heaps, 
picking  mysterious  objects,  with  hands  that  seem  them- 
selves to  have  been  burned  into  coke. 

The  place  is  also  a  species  of  morgue  for  dead  dogs. 
Every  cur  that  the  Hudson  drowns  floats  inevitably  to  this 
spot  and  is  swept  up  on  the  swampy  bank,  —  when  the 
outlawed  mongrels  that  skulk  between  the  timber  logs 
crowd  around  it,  and  perhaps  identify  the  corpse.  On  Sun- 
days you  see  a  few  low-browed,  soap-locked  loafers  strolling 
among  the  piles,  pitching  stones  into  the  water,  and,  if  it 
is  summer,  stripping  off  their  tattered  shirts  to  have  a 


TOMMATOO.  227 

swim ;  but  on  week-days  the  place  is  entirely  dead.  The 
starved  boys  and  the  shadowy  rag-pickers  flitting  here 
and  there  give  no  air  of  life ;  they  seem  very  thin  and 
impalpable,  and  haunt  the  place  like  ghosts. 

Further  on  this  dreary  swamp  changes  somewhat  its 
character.  The  great  balks  of  timber  disappear,  and  a 
few  shingle  huts  —  so  loosely  built  that  the  wind  whistles 
through  their  walls  with  a  shriek  of  triumph  —  are  scat- 
tered here  and  there.  Large  masses  of  stone  lie  about, 
hewn  into  square  blocks  for  house-fronts,  and  in  the  day- 
time the  monotonous  click  of  the  stone-cutter's  chisel 
shrills  continually  from  the  shingle  huts.  This  straggling 
stone-yard,  for  such  it  is,  is  perhaps  less  desolate  than 
the  swamp  further  down,  but  at  night  —  when  the  moon 
streams  on  the  huge  white  blocks  that  lie  there  so  cold 
and  dead,  and  the  huts  are  deserted  by  the  workmen,  and 
nothing  moves  but  a  shadowy  dog  that  flits  by,  seen  for 
an  instant  against  the  pallid  stones  —  the  place  is  in- 
expressibly weird  and  lonely. 

Just  on  the  confines  of  this  stone-yard,  in  a  rutty, 
half-made  road  that  is  bounded  on  both  sides  by  burned- 
looking  building-lots,  where  nothing  hides  the  scalded 
earth  but  some  unhealthy  boulders,  and  occasional  rem- 
nants of  old  shoes  that  are  black  and  pulpy  with  decay, 
stands  a  small  house  built  of  unpainted  shingles.  It 
is  two-storied,  with  a  basement,  and  a  somewhat  im- 
posing flight  of  steps  up  to  the  door ;  yet  it  wears  a  reck- 
less and  despairing  aspect.  I  have  no  doubt  when  this 
house  was  built  it  had  many  youthful  hopes  of  estab- 
lishing a  neighborhood  and  becoming  a  dwelling  of  re- 
spectability. It  promised  itself,  perhaps,  a  coat  or  two 
of  paint,  and  had  visions  of  being  the  ancestor  of  a  street. 
But  year  after  year  wore  away,  and  it  found  itself  still 


228  TOMMATOO. 

naked  as  when  it  was  born.  No  companion  dwelling 
lifted  its  head  to  cheer  the  solitude.  On  all  sides  the 
bleak  river-winds  tousled  and  smote  its  bare  walls  until 
its  windows  chattered  with  the  cold.  It  grew  weary  of 
waiting  for  the  neighborhood  that  never  was  to  come,  and 
seemed  to  care  no  longer  what  became  of  it.  It  let 
beardy  mosses  grow  all  over  its  haggard  face.  Its  edges 
were  chipped  and  ragged ;  its  chimneys,  no  longer  spruce 
and  tapering,  bulged  and  tottered  to  one  side,  like  the 
crushed  hat  of  a  confirmed  drunkard.  It  buttoned  itself 
up  no  more  about  the  chest  with  its  snug,  comfortable 
doors,  but  let  them  hang  loose  on  one  hinge,  and  flap  about 
in  the  wind.  It  was  evident  to  any  one  who  saw  it  that 
the  house  near  the  stone-yard  had  gone  to  the  bad. 

Forlorn  and  seedy  as  it  looked,  this  house  was  inhab- 
ited. The  shivering,  shrunken  windows  gleamed  with 
lights  by  night,  yet  not  cheerfully,  but  with  a  wild  glare, 
like  that  which  streams  from  the  eyes  of  those  about  to 
die.  If  the  skulking  men  that  prowled  in  summer  even- 
ings among  the  sheds  of  the  stone-yard,  whistling  mys- 
teriously to  each  other,  had  any  taste  for  music,  the  house 
would  have  been  to  them  a  source  of  great  wonder. 
Sometimes  for  hours  together  a  wild  and  mellow  music 
would  stream  upon  the  air,  soaring  over  the  dreary  yard, 
wailing  sadly  along  the  waste  river-grounds  and  by  the 
rotting  sloops  until  it  reached  the  water,  when  it  would 
float  triumphally  along,  as  if  it  knew  that  it  was  leaving 
the  desolate  place  behind  it,  and  bury  itself  deep  in  the 
sleeping  groves  that  nodded  on  the  distant  Weehawken 
heights.  The  character  of  these  melodious  sounds  was 
entirely  mystical  and  strange.  They  were  not  born  of 
violin  or  bugle,  and  yet  seemed  to  have  the  souls  of  both 
instruments  intermingling  with  another  distinctly  their 


TOMMATOO.  229 

own  -j — another  soul,  not  merely  instrumental,  but  human, 
passionate,  luxuriant,  as  if  all  the  utterances  of  a  great 
Italian  love  —  desire,  entreaty,  and  triumph  —  were  trans- 
lated into  aerial  harmonies. 

To  you  and  I,  reader,  there  need  be  no  mystery  in 
either  house  or  music.  That  despairing-looking  chateau 
was  inhabited  but  by  three  people, — an  old  man,  a  young 
girl,  and  a  youth  of  about  twenty-one.  As  age  is  entitled 
to  its  traditional  homage  of  precedence,  I  will  first  intro- 
duce to  you  the  elder  of  the  trio.  I  beg  to  present  to 
your  notice  the  maestro,  Baioccho.' 

You  could  not  possibly  conceive  a  man  made  up  with 
less  waste  of  material  than  Signor  Baioccho.*  Nature, 
when  she  formed  him,  must  have  been  terribly  short  of 
stuff.  There  was  too  little  of  everything  in  his  physical 
composition.  He  was  abbreviated  in  every  limb  and  fea- 
ture. This,  nevertheless,  was  fortunate,  for  had  he  been 
on  a  large  scale  he  would  have  been  insupportably  ugly  ; 
he  was  too  small,  however,  to  be  repulsive,  and  so  was 
only  queer.  But  how  queer  he  was,  with  his  withered, 
pinched-up  face,  his  sparse,  stiff  beard,  which  looked  like 
a  thin  growth  of  thorns,  and  his  quaint,  convulsed  figure, 
that  gave  one  the  idea  that  all  inside  of  him  was  catgut 
and  wheels,  and  that  something  was  continually  breaking 
in  his  machinery !  Yet,  with  all  this  likeness  to  a  comic 
toy,  how  inexpressibly  mournful  was  the  countenance  of 
Signor  Baioccho !  what  terrible  sorrow  was  hopelessly 
shut  up  in  that  wretched  little  frame  ! 

Baioccho  had  been  a  musician,  and  was  now  a  cook. 
Years  ago,  when  opera  was  young  in  New  York,  Baioccho 
came  "here  from  Italy  with  a  company,  set  up  an  opera- 
house,  was  instantly  successful,  and  made  a  fortune. 
Music  was  his  religion,  the  lyric  stage  his  temple,  the  con- 


230  TOMMATOO. 

ductor's  desk  his  altar,  the  overture  his  mass.  But  he 
became  a  fanatic  in  his  faith.  He  enlarged  his  house ; 
he  spent  thousands  of  dollars  on  the  production  of  new 
operas,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  became  bankrupt. 
For  the  opera  is  like  a  Parisian  mistress,  the  most  charm- 
ing, fascinating,  bewildering  of  all  creations,  and  inva- 
riably leaves  you  without  a  shilling  at  last.  For  many 
years  poor  Baioccho  struggled  to  keep  his  feet.  He  led 
orchestras  at  second-rate  theatres;  he  gave  lessons  on 
the  piano  and  violin,  always  hoping,  always  dreaming  of 
one  day  grasping  again  the  magical  baton,  the  sceptre  of 
his  world.  It  was  a  vain  struggle,  however ;  other  maestri 
came  over  from  Italy  with  still  more  wondrous  and  expen- 
sive singers  than  those  Baioccho  brought,  and  they  built 
opera-houses,  and  bought  newspaper  puffs,  and  covered 
the  dead  walls  with  huge  announcements  of  colossal  suc- 
cesses; and  the  world,  rushing  on  the  heels  of  novelty, 
swept  over  the  ancestor  of  American  opera,  and  poor  Bai- 
occho found  himself  trampled  on,  bruised,  and  left  to  die. 
It  were  too  sad  a  task  to  enumerate  the  various  steps 
which  led  Baioccho  from  Parnassus  to  the  kitchen.  An 
accomplishment  of  which  in  his  palmy  days  he  had  been 
not  a  little  proud,  was  now  brought  into  requisition  to 
save  him  from  starvation ;  the  hand  that  was  too  weak 
to  hold  the  baton  found  itself  still  able  to  brandish  the 
ladle.  Those  gay  Italian  tenors,  those  majestic  bassos, 
little  thought  when,  round  his  elegant  supper-table  long 
ago,  they  used  to  applaud  his  amateur  cookery,  delicious 
mayonnaises,  harmonious  salads,  that  the  day  would  arrive 
when  the  poor  conductor  would  don  the  white  apron  and 
cotton  cap  very  seriously,  and  sweat  all  day  in  a  restau- 
rant kitchen  through  an  eternal  round  of  soups  and  roasts 
and  entrees  ever  the  same.  But  so  it  was.  Those  who 


TOMMATOO.  231 

frequented  Calcar's  Restaurant  would  now  and  then  be- 
hold a  wizened  little  man  stealing  quietly  from  some  mys- 
terious passage  leading  to  the  kitchen,  and  sneaking  up  to 
the  bar,  where  he  would  hastily  swallow  a  potent  draught 
of  raw  brandy,  and  shuffle  back  guiltily  to  the  place 
whence  he  came.  And  they  would  see  one  or  two  old 
New-Yorkers  looking  pitifully  after  him,  and  saying  to 
each  other  that  they  remembered  poor  Baioccho  when  he 
drove  his  carriage.  He  now  trudged  home  every  night 
on  foot ;  and  it  was  sad  to  see  the  old  fellow,  unsteady 
with  drink,  staggering  down  the  rutty  road  to  the  house 
near  the  stone-yard,  where  the  faithful  Tommatoo  kept 
watch  until  she  heard  his  stumbling  footstep,  when,  trip- 
ping to  the  door,  she  tenderly  helped  him  up  to  bed. 

So  !  we  have  come  at  last  to  Tommatoo.  I  have  been 
longing  to  get  to  her  for  some  time  past,  but  it  would 
have  been  unkind  to  have  deserted  old  Baioccho  now  that 
he  is  so  poor.  Salutation  to  his  misfortunes ! 

Tommatoo  was  Baioccho's  only  child.  In  some  quaint 
old  Italian  chapel,  it  may  be  by  the  shores  of  Sorrento,  a 
smiling  babe  was  one  sunny  day  christened  by  the  stout 
old  Padre,  and  the  name  bestowed  was  Tomasina.  Melo- 
dious as  was  this  pretty  name,  the  little  girl  that  bore  it, 
as  soon  as  she  reached  lisping  age,  obstinately  refused  to 
be  known  by  any  cognomen  but  that  of  Tommatoo.  This 
sounded  awfully  heathenish  to  old  Baioccho,  but  she  was 
apparently  determined,  and  in  time  her  imperious  infant 
will  had  its  effect  on  the  family.  She  became  Tommatoo 
to  all  intents  and  purposes,  as  far  as  household  experi- 
ence went,  and  even  when  she  grew  up  to  the  age  of 
reason  did  not  seem  anxious  to  reclaim  her  original  ap- 
pellation. 

Tommatoo  was  one  of  those  lovely,  fair-haired  Italians 


232  TOMMATOO. 

that  one  sees  so  seldom,  but  which  once  seen  are  never 
forgotten.  At  some  antique  period,  when  Alaric  was 
king,  some  of  the  blood  of  his  blonde  race  must  have  min- 
gled with  the  olive-skinned  Roman  Baiocchi,  and  after 
centuries  of  rest  suddenly  bloomed  in  Tommatoo.  Her 
eyes  were  a  dark  liquid  gray,  like  a  twilight  lake.  Her 
face  was  pale,  yet  not  cold,  for  a  southern  fire  seemed 
to  smoulder  beneath  the  skin,  with  a  beautiful,  subdued 
glow.  Her  mouth,  small  and  moist  and  rosy,  pouted 
over  pearly  teeth,  half  seen,  and  the  curves  of  her  smooth 
cheeks  swept  into  a  wickedly  dimpled  chin,  that  aided 
and  abetted  with  all  its  might  the  criminal  beauty  of  her 
bewildering  lips.  This  sweet  virginal  face  was  set  in  a 
golden  frame  of  luxuriant  hair,  that  one  of  Raphael's  saints 
might  have  envied. 

Yet  why  speak  of  Tommatoo's  beauty  so  rapturously  ? 
I  shall  have  no  enthusiasm  left  for  that  bright  and  joyous 
nature  that  burst  from  her  as  the  sun  bursts  from  a  golden 
cloud,  shedding  its  own  lustre  on  everything,  and  infus- 
ing into  all  a  portion  of  its  own  innate  warmth.  Every 
one  has  felt  at  times,  when  wandering  through  the  fields, 
the  intense  joy  experienced  from  the  twittering  of  the 
birds  amidst  the  branches  and  the  glancing  of  their  tiny 
forms  through  the  leaves.  Some  such  pure  and  healthy 
influence  did  Tommatoo  exercise  over  the  little  household. 
She  twittered  and  sung,  and,  as  it  were,  fluttered  lightly 
through  the  rooms,  until  one  could  swear  that  the  sun 
shone  wherever  she  went.  All  day,  while  old  Baioccho 
was  absent  attending  to  his  culinary  duties,  compounding 
wondrous  soups,  and  moving  amidst  the  thick  steams  of 
the  kitchen  like  an  elf  in  some  incantation  scene,  Tomma- 
too was  putting  the  old  house  in  order ;  sweeping  up  the 
little  sitting-room,  displaying  its  scanty  furniture  to  the 


TOMMATOO.  233 

best  advantage,  and  occasionally  darting  like  a  swallow 
into  Mr.  Gustave  Beaumont's  sanctum  sanctorum. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  this  was  one  of  the  house- 
hold occupations  that  Tommatoo  performed  with  the  great- 
est willingness;  for  Mr.  Gustave  Beaumont  was  young, 
handsome,  and  played  the  most  delightful  melodies  on  his 
great  instrument,  invented  by  himself,  entitled  the  Pan- 
corno.  The  Pancorno  was  a  singular  piece  of  mechanism ; 
hideously  suggestive,  in  appearance,  of  some  nameless  in- 
strument of  torture  from  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisition, 
yet  in  reality  capable  of  soothing  the  most  agonizing  pains 
by  the  sweetness  of  its  notes.  By  aid  of  some  interior 
arrangement  of  tubes,  the  vibrations  of  the  horn  portion 
acted  in  turn  upon  what  must  have  been  a  series  of  wires 
also  concealed,  and  which  seemed  to  give  the  effect  of  a 
trio  between  flute,  violin,  and  French-horn.  It  was  from 
the  Pancorno  that  the  seraphic  strains  heard  at  night 
across  the  stone-yard  floated  so  harmoniously,  giving  to 
the  old  house  an  air  of  being  one  of  those  enchanted 
abodes  frequent  in  fairy  tales,  in  which  dwelt  some  spell- 
bound prince,  who  thus  summoned  in  music  his  faithful 
knights  to  his  rescue. 

Gustave  was  a  clever  young  Frenchman,  with  an  ex- 
traordinary passion  for  music,  whom  old  Baioccho  had 
known  ever  since  he  was  a  child.  He  was  the  son  of  the 
bassoon  in  one  of  the  orchestras  which  the  maestro  had 
conducted  in  his  palmy  days  ;  but  one  night  the  bassoon 
died  in  the  middle  of  a  rapid  passage,  and  the  little  Gus- 
tave was  left  without  a  father,  and  but  one  friend,  Bai- 
occho. The  old  Italian  took  the  bassoon's  son  home, 
brought  him  up  as  his  own  child  along  with  Tommatoo  ; 
and  when  his  fall  came  Gustave  still  shared  his  scanty 
means.  To  do  the  young  fellow  justice,  he  wanted  to 


234  TOMMATOO. 

work,  but  the  old  man  would  not  have  it.  "  You  are  a 
genius,  Gustave,"  he  would  say,  "  and,  please  the  Virgin, 
you  shall  do  something  great."  So  Gustave  did  nothing 
great  or  small  save  the  invention  of  the  Pancorno,  out  of 
which  he  expected  to  reap  a  fortune,  and  he  continued  to 
live  at  the  house  by  the  stone-yard,  having  first  scrupu- 
lously bargained  with  his  entertainer  to  pay  three  dollars 
a  week,  which,  as  -he  did  nothing  but  play  on  the  Pan- 
corno and  make  love  to  Tommatoo,  it  is  needless  to  say 
he  never  earned  and  never  paid.  It  quieted  his  con- 
science, however,  and  he  used  to  say  to  himself  that  when 
he  sold  his  invention  for  one  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
that  being  the  least  he  would  take  for  it,  old  Baioccho 
should  live  like  a  prince. 

And  this  is  the  last  of  the  inmates  of  the  house  by 
the  stone-yard. 


II. 

A  FAMILY   GROUP. 

" Is  that  you,  father?" 

"  Ah,  the  little  Tommatoo !  So  you  maintain  the 
watch  for  the  poor  old  father  1  Bless  you,  little  angel !  " 

"  Take  care  of  the  step,  father.     Take  care." 

"  Put  yourself  easy,  my  child.  I  will  be  remindful  of 
the  step.  I  am  very  steadfast  on  my  feet  this  evening.  " 

And,  as  if  to  falsify  his  testimony,  poor  old  Baioccho 
staggered  up  the  steps  leading  to  the  hall-door,  and  would 
have  fallen  if  Tommatoo  had  not  caught  one  of  his  thin 
arms  and  held  him  up. 

"It  is  nothing;  it  is  nothing!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
tottered  through  the  hall  into  the  little  parlor.  "  I  can 


TOMMATOO.  235 

walk  myself  well  enough.  But  it  is  the  kitchen,  —  that 
dam  kitchen  !  It  has  got  into  my  head,  my  child.  Where 
is  the  cognac  1 " 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  do  you  any  good,  father  1 " 
asked  Tommatoo,  sorrowfully ;  "  won't  it  make  your  head 
bad?" 

"  Ah,  little  dove  !  It  does  not  comprehend.  My  child, 
the  cognac  is  the  life  to  me.  When  I  stew  and  form 
dishes  and  mingle  soups  all  day  long  in  that  dam  kitchen, 
it  gets  into  my  head ;  and  sometimes,  mon  Dieu  !  when  I 
stand  over  the  ragout,  and  try  to  forget  the  place  where  I 
have  found  myself  for  a  moment,  the  old  times  return 
upon  me  and  I  become  very  sad  and  sorrowful,  so  that  I 
have  to  walk  myself  out  to  the  bar  and  drink  the  cognac ; 
and  then,  per  baccho  !  I  remember  myself  not,  and  I  go 
back  to  my  kitchen  quite  raised.  Give  me  one  little 
glass  of  cognac,  my  child  1  —  one  glass  for  the  poor  old 
father  !  " 

Tommatoo  fluttered  over  to  a  little  cupboard  that  stood 
on  one  side  of  the  room,  and  brought  out  a  bottle  and  a 
wine-glass,  and,  pouring  out  some  brandy,  handed  it  to 
the  old  man. 

He  raised  it  tremulously  to  his  mouth,  and  quaffed  it  off 
at  a  single  draught ;  then,  smacking  his  lips,  he  muttered, 
"Ah  !  the  cognac  is  the  soul  to  the  old  men  like  me ! " 

There  was  nothing  disgusting  in  Baioccho's  intoxica- 
tion. The  inebriety  of  the  old  musician  was  as  cleanly 
as  the  tipsiness  of  a  toy-man  —  had  such  been  possible. 
His  little  eyes  only  twinkled  the  brighter,  and  his  nose 
seemed  longer  and  sharper  and  thinner,  and  his  lips 
moved  more  rapidly ;  but  that  was  all.  His  speech  was 
not  thick,  nor  were  his  ideas  clouded.  It  was  drunken- 
ness idealized. 


236  TOMMATOO. 

"  What  has  my  child  to  tell  me  of  the  day  ? "  asked  the 
old  man,  invigorated  as  it  were  by  the  petit  verve  de  cognac. 

Tommatoo  drooped  her  eyelids,  colored  a  little,  and 
did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

"  Some  one  has  been  here,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"  Which  was  it,  little  one  1 " 

"  It  was  —  it  was  —  "     And  the  little  one  faltered. 

"  Diable  ! "  cried  the  old  man,  leaping  like  an  enraged 
cat  from  his  chair,  as  if  an  idea  had  flashed  upon  him 
suddenly.  "  Ten  millions  of  devils !  was  it  not  that 
brute  Giuseppe  1" 

"It  was,  father,"  answered  Tommatoo,  soothingly. 
"Pray,  don't  fly  into  a  rage.  I  could  not  help  it." 

"  The  wretch !  the  abandoned-by-God  miserable  fel- 
low ! "  shouted  old  Baioccho,  growing  more  and  more 
excited  each  moment.  "  So  he  must  place  himself  near 
my  child,  my  angel,  to  steal  her  away  from  me  !  But 
we  will  see  !  What  did  he  say  to  you  ] "  he  added,  turn- 
ing almost  fiercely  to  Tommatoo. 

"  0,  nothing  more  than  what  he  has  said  to  you.  He 
said  he  loved  me  very  much,  and  if  I  would  marry  him 
that  he  would  take  us  all  back  to  Italy,  and  that  you 
should  end  your  days  in  comfort." 

"  0,  the  serpent !  His  mother  and  his  grandfather 
were  snakes  !  You  know  not  that  man,  Tommatoo  !  He 
is  capable  of  roasting  his  father  on  a  spit ! " 

"  But,  dear  father,  you  know  I  hate  him.  I  will  never 
marry  any  one  but  Gustave,  and  not  that  until  you  wish 
it.  I  laughed  at  Giuseppe,  and  told  him  to  go  away." 
And  Tommatoo  made  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  give  some 
idea  of  her  stern  manner  to  Giuseppe  ;  but  if  the  reality 
was  at  all  like  the  representation,  I  don't  think  that  the 
descendant  of  snakes  was  very  much  crushed. 


TOMMATOO.  237 

"  Ah,  child !  you  are  as  innocent  as  the  flower  that 
grows  under  our  feet  ! "  and  Baioccho  looked  down,  but, 
finding  no  flowers,  continued  :  "  He  will  perform  some 
mischief  to  us.  I  feel  it  in  —  in  the  air  !  "  and  the  sharp 
eyes  seemed  to  pierce  into  the  depths  of  the  gloomy  room, 
and  fasten  on  some  spectral  misfortune.  "  Now  Gustave 
is  a  good  boy.  He  will  be  a  great  man.  His  Pancorno 
shall  be  played  in  many  universal  cities,  and  the  good 
fortune  shall  come  to  him.  Thou  shalt  be  the  wife  of 
Gustave,  my  small  pet  child ! " 

"  But,"  said  Tommatoo,  with  a  half-smile,  "  I  think  he 
loves  his  Pancorno  better  than  he  does  me." 

"  It  is  the  love  of  the  artist,  mignonne.  He  loves  it 
with  his  soul,  but  his  heart  —  ah,  that  is  thine  ! " 

"  Hark  !  there  he  is  !  "  cried  Tommatoo,  hushing  her 
father  into  silence  as  the  liquid,  delicious  notes  of  the 
Pancorno  stole  through  the  house. 

"Yes,  let  us  listen.  0  heaven,  how  beautiful!"  ex- 
claimed the  old  musician,  rapturously  ;  then  in  a  half- 
whisper  added,  "  One  little  glass  more  of  the  cognac,  ma 
biche." 

And  there  they  sat  in  the  dusk  of  the  room,  the  old 
man  warming  his  veins  with  the  cognac,  the  young  girl 
dreaming  of  her  lover,  and  both  listening  to  the  music 
that  bore  them  far  away,  out  of  the  old  house  by  the 
stone-yard,  into  a  delicious  land,  where  the  sea  lay  like  a 
mistress  on  the  broad  breast  of  the  beaches,  and  the 
breath  of  the  orange  groves  wandered  like  unheard  music 
through  the  slopes  and  valleys. 

"  I  think  so  of  my  home,"  murmured  the  old  maestro, 
and  I  know  that  a  tear  fell  through  the  twilight  as  he 
spoke,  —  "  of  my  dear,  dear  home  when  I  hear  the  music. 
Ah  !  why  does  not  my  brother  —  the  brother  of  my  youth 


238  TOMMATOO. 

—  replace  me  in  my  dear  Italy  1  He  is  more  rich  than 
a  great  many  of  Jews,  and  yet  he  will  not  spare  his  poor 
brother  one  scudo,  Tommatoo.  0,  if  I  were  the  rich 
Pietro,  and  he  the  poor  cook  Giulio  Baioccho,  I  would 
not  count  my  zechins  until  he  had  what  he  wanted.  If 
he  would  only  promise  to  leave  my  little  Tommatoo  some- 
thing when  he  died,  I  would  not  care  for  myself.  Ah,  the 
bad  brother  !  Mignonne,  one  other  little  verre  de  cognac 
for  the  poor  old  cook." 

"  Shall  I  go  and  tell  Gustave  that  you  have  come 
home  ?"  asked  Tommatoo.  "  We  must  have  supper  soon, 
you  know,  father." 

"  Do,  my  beloved.  Sweet  as  are  the  notes  of  the  Pan- 
corno,  thy  voice  is  sweeter  still.  Go  and  gladden  the 
good  Gustave  with  its  music." 

Tommatoo  tripped  to  the  door,  perched  for  a  moment 
on  the  threshold  like  a  little  bird  hovering  on  the  edge 
of  its  cage,  then,  after  looking  back  into  the  dusky  room 
with  a  radiant  smile  that  seemed  to  illuminate  the  twi- 
light, she  vanished,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  notes  of 
the  Pancorno  ceased,  and  there  were  light,  pattering  foot- 
steps heard  in  its  stead. 

The  old  musician,  when  she  was  gone,  buried  his  head 
in  his  hands,  and  seemed  lost  in  meditation ;  —  so  lost 
that  he  neither  heard  nor  saw  anything  around  him;  — 
neither  the  footsteps  that  came  softly  toward  him  through 
the  gloom,  nor  the  tall  cloaked  form  that  stood  beside 
him,  until  a  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder  startled  him  from 
his  reverie,  and  he  looked  up. 

"  Who  is  that  1 "  he  asked,  with  a  sort  of  astonished 
abruptness,  as  he  in  vain  tried  to  distinguish  the  new- 
comer's features  through  the  darkness. 

"  It  is  I,  —  Giuseppe,"  answered  the  figure  in  a  very 
calm  voice,  and  in  Italian. 


TOMMATOO.  239 

"  What  dost  thou  here  again,  outcast  1 "  cried  the  old 
maestro,  starting  from  his  seat  hurriedly  and  in  great 
agitation.  "I  tell  thee  that  thou  shalt  never  wed  my 
daughter.  I  know  thee  well.  I  know  of  thy  prison  life. 
I  know  of  that  bloody  affair  in  Venice,  when  even  the 
sacred  stole  of  the  priest  could  not  shield  his  heart  from 
thy  accursed  hand.  Begone !  or  I  will  call  for  help,  and 
have  thee  lodged  in  the  jail." 

"Come,  come,  Baioccho,  no  need  of  all  this  bad  lan- 
guage. You  wrong  me,  I  swear  you  wrong  me.  I  am 
not  the  man  you  take  me  for,  nor  do  I  wish  to  press  my 
suit  with  Tommatoo.  I  come  for  other  ends.  I  bear 
great  tidings  to  thee.  I  bring  thee  great  riches." 

"Ah,  boaster,  you  will  not  cajole  me  with  your  fine 
words ! "  cried  the  old  cook,  mockingly. 

"  If  I  do,  may  I  forget  my  mother's  grave  !  "  exclaimed 
Giuseppe,  earnestly.  "Walk  with  me  for  ten  minutes 
along  the  road,  and  if  I  prove  not  my  words  thou  shalt 
never  see  my  face  again." 

In  spite  of  his  detestation  of  his  feilow-countryman 
Baioccho  could  not  prevent  his  heart  from  leaping  to  his 
mouth  at  the  mention  of  wealth.  In  a  moment  he  saw 
himself  emancipated  from  the  accursed  kitchen,  his  Tom- 
matoo clad  as  became  her  beauty,  Gustave's  Pancorno 
brought  before  the  public,  and  all  three  living  happily  in 
the  dear  Italy,  making  a  music  out  of  life  itself. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  will  go  and  walk  with  you.  But 
why  not  tell  it  here  1 " 

"  Because  houses  are  less  safe  to  speak  in  than  the 
universe,"  said  Giuseppe.  "  You  forget  that  I  was  once 
a  conspirator,  and  am  cautious." 

"  I  remember  it  well  enough,"  muttered  Baioccho,  as 
both  left  the  house,  "  and  the  police  of  Venice  remember 
it  better." 


240  TOMMATOO. 

They  walked  slowly  toward  the  stone-yard.  Neither 
spoke,  —  Baioccho  disdaining  to  show  any  impatience, 
Giuseppe  remaining  silent  for  some  motive  of  his  own. 
So  on  through  the  stone-yard  ;  amidst  the  white  blocks 
that  loomed  like  dim  ghosts  through  the  darkness ;  by 
the  shingle  huts  that,  with  their  jagged  corners  and  ir- 
regular roofs,  seemed  in  the  darkness  to  crouch  like 
strange  animals,  squatting  upon  the  dreary  earth ;  over 
rough  masses  of  unhewn  stone,  through  deep  ruts  left  by 
cart-wheels  in  the  soft  clay,  until  they  reached  the  river. 

"  Well,"  said  Baioccho,  at  last,  "  how  long  am  I  to  wait 
for  this  wondrous  intelligence  ?  " 

"  Your  brother  is  dead,"  answered  Giuseppe. 

"  What !  "  almost  shrieked  the  old  cook,  "  and  —  and 
—  he  left  —  " 

"You  everything." 

"  Holy  Virgin  be  praised !  "  ejaculated  the  poor  old 
fellow,  clasping  his  hands  and  kneeling  in  the  damp,  oozy 
earth.  "My  dear  Tommatoo  will  be  rich." 

"  I  have  just  arrived  from  Italy,"  continued  Giuseppe. 
"  I  saw  your  brother.  I  found  him  dying.  I  spoke  to 
him  about  you,  and  induced  him  to  will  to  you  the  fortune 
which  he  was  going  to  leave  to  the  Church.  Do  you  not 
think  I  deserve  some  reward  for  all  this  ?  " 

"  You  shall  have  it.  I  swear  it !  "  cried  the  old  mu- 
sician, fervently.  "  You  shall  name  your  own  reward." 

"  Good.     I  want  your  daughter." 

"  Ah,  traitor !  that  is  what  you  demand  !  "  cried  the  ex- 
citable old  man  in  his  shrill  voice.  "  Never  !  never  ! 
never  !  No ;  you  shall  have  money,  but  no  Tommatoo,  — 
no  Tommatoo." 

"Tommatoo  is  your  heir  at  law  when  you  die,"  re- 
marked Giuseppe. 


TOMMATOO.  241 

"  Certainly.  I  know  why  you  want  to  wed  with  her, 
you  fellow ! " 

"  She  will  inherit  very  soon." 

"  Eh ! "  The  old  man  did  not  exactly  seem  to  compre- 
hend, but  peered  up  into  Giuseppe's  face. 

"  She  will  come  into  possession  in  ten  minutes,"  added 
Giuseppe,  and  rapidly  as  lightning  he  passed  a  sort  of 
handkerchief  across  Baioccho's  mouth,  stifling  all  utter- 
ance. The  old  man,  though  thin,  possessed  a  great  te- 
nacity of  muscle,  and  he  struggled  long  and  vigorously 
against  his  assailant.  He  twined  about  his  legs,  he 
crawled  up  his  huge  chest,  he  dug  his  bony  fingers  into 
his  throat,  all  the  while  uttering  through  the  gag  upon 
his  mouth  terrible  muffled  cries  of  agony  that  were  more 
dreadful  from  their  being  so  suppressed.  The  youth  and 
strength  of  Giuseppe  told  at  last.  The  old  man  grew 
faint  and  almost  ceased  to  struggle.  In  an  instant  Giu- 
seppe seized  him  by  the  waist,  lifted  him  clear  off"  the 
the  ground,  and  swung  him  into  the  river.  He  watched 
him  sink.  "I  think  that  Tommatoo  is  mine  now,"  he 
muttered,  as  he  turned  and  fled  rapidly  back  through 
the  stone-yard. 

Baioccho  sank,  but  speedily  came  to  the  surface.  In- 
stinctively he  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  suddenly  one 
of  them  came  in  contact  with  some  floating  substance. 
He  grasped  it,  and  found  it  a  drifting  beam  of  timber 
that  had  become  loosed  from  its  moorings  to  the  bank 
and  was  travelling  with  the  stream.  With  some  diffi- 
culty he  got  astride  of  it  and  removed  his  gag.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  shout  for  help,  for  he  could  not  swim,  and 
he  was  already  some  distance  from  the  bank,  and  he  put 
all  his  strength  into  a  furious  cry.  The  sound  of  his  own 
voice  echoing  over  that  desolate  shore  seemed  to  tell  him 

16 


242  TOMMATOO. 

how  little  chance  he  had  of  obtaining  assistance  in  that 
way,  and,  after  shouting  until  his  lungs  were  sore,  he 
gave  it  up,  and  clung  to  the  hope  of  being  picked  up 
by  some  boat. 

The  tide  was  running  out  rapidly,  and  a  wind  was 
blowing  down  stream,  so  that  Baioccho  could  tell  from 
the  rippling  of  the  waves  around  the  beam  that  he  was 
floating  fast  with  the  current.  It  was  very  dark.  On 
either  side  of  the  bank  he  could  see  the  faint  lights  in 
the  houses,  and  now  and  then  the  black  spectral  hull  of 
some  sloop  or  schooner  would  suddenly  appear  to  him  as 
he  floated  past,  and  then  vanish.  All  on  the  river  seemed 
dead.  There  was  not  a  sound  of  life.  There  did  not 
seem  a  hope  for  the  old  musician.  -  » 

Still  he  floated  fast.  Past  the  dreary  black  wharves, 
round  which  vessels  made  palisades  of  masts  seen  dimly 
against  the  dull  sky.  Past  the  shadowy  groves  of  the 
Elysian  Fields,  that  now,  alas !  seemed  like  the  banks 
of  Acheron.  Past  the  cheerful  Atlantic  Gardens,  where 
lights  gleamed  on  the  water,  and  people  were  making 
merry,  while  the  poor  old  musician  was  floating  to  his 
death.  Past  the  great  hive  of  the  city,  that  in  the  gloom 
seemed  to  lie  upon  the  water  exhausted  with  its  day's 
labor.  And  so  on  out  into  the  broad  bay.  Then  for 
the  first  time  Baioccho  felt  that  he  would  be  swept  out 
to  sea.  He  had  not  recoiled  from  his  fate  up  to  this 
time,  for  he  was  brave,  and,  after  all,  drowning  was  only 
death.  But  starvation  —  ah  !  that  thought  was  too  hor- 
rible, and  for  the  first  time  a  groan  escaped  from  the  poor 
musician.  He  then  thought  of  Tommatoo,  of  Gustavo, 
of  their  agony  at  his  never  returning,  —  their  vague 
sorrow  for  his  fate,  which  would  never  be  known.  Then 
he  prayed  to  God  that  the  murderer,  Giuseppe,  would 


TOMMATOO.  243 

be   baffled    in    his    designs    on    his    dear    child,  —  and 
then  — 

A  dull,  roaring  sound  along  the  water.  A  hissing  of 
the  air  and  of  the  sea.  A  red  glare  from  what  seemed 
like  a  fierce  angry  eye  moving  over  the  waves.  A  sparkle 
of  foam,  seen  white  through  the  gloom,  and  Baioccho  saw 
the  ferry-boat  bearing  right  down  on  him.  He  shouted  ; 
he  tried  to  stand  upright  on  the  timber  log,  but  it  slipped 
and  turned ;  he  took  off  his  coat  and  flung  it  high  in  the 
air,  —  all  to  attract  attention.  But  in  vain.  Closer, 
closer  came  the  fiery  eye.  With  what  seemed  to  the  old 
musician  ever-increasing  speed  the  sharp  prow  cut  through 
the  water.  The  funnel  gave  out  short  puffs  of  triumph, 
the  wheels  beat  their  paddles  madly  on  the  water,  as  if 
they  knew  what  work  they  had  to  do,  then  a  sudden,  aw- 
ful shriek  from  Baioccho.  The  projecting  ledge  of  the 
boat  shot  over  him.  He  touched  it  for  an  instant  with 
his  hand,  and  then  went  under. 


III. 

THE   GRANDSON    OP   SNAKES. 

"  FATHER,  Gustave  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
we  will  have  supper !  "  cried  Tommatoo,  fluttering  into 
the  dark  room  like  some  pretty  little  nocturnal  bird. 
"  Father !  why  don't  you  answer  1  Why,  where  can  he 
be  ]  Ah,  that  cognac  !  He  has  perhaps  taken  too  much 
while  I  was  away,  —  poor  father  !  "  and  Tommatoo  hastily 
lit,  with  a  lucifer  match,  a  little  fluid  lamp,  and  held  it 
high  above  her  head  while  her  eyes  everywhere  sought 
the  expected  recumbent  form  of  the  old  musician. 

"  Why,  he  is  not  here ! "  she  cried,  in  a  tone  half  of 


244  TOMMATOO. 

astonishment,  half  of  alarm.  "  0,  where  has  he  gone  1 
Not  out  into  this  dark,  dark  night.  God  forbid  !  I  will 
call  Gtistave " ;  —  and  she  ran  toward  the  door  of  the 
apartment.  But  ere  she  quite  reached  it  she  stopped 
and  drew  back,  for  a  tall,  dark  figure  filled  the  little 
doorway,  and  a  pair  of  bright  sinister  eyes  reflected  back 
the  lamplight. 

"  Ah,  pretty  one  !  you  did  not  expect  to  see  me  again 
to-day,  did  you  1 "  said  the  new-comer,  in  a  half-mocking 
tone,  and  in  Italian ;  "  but  you  see  how  it  is  :  I  am  fasci- 
nated, and  haunt  the  spot  where  I  will  find  you." 

"  Signor  Giuseppe,  my  father  does  not  wish  you  to 
come  here ;  you  know  what  I  think,  and  yet  you  come. 
That  I  think  is  wrong  "  ;  —  and  Tomrnatoo  looked  like  a 
moralist  of  the  Middle  Ages,  if  one  could  imagine  such 
a  personage  with  beautiful  blond  hair,  large  dark-gray 
eyes,  and  the  neatest  little  waist  in  the  world. 

"  Ah  !  none  of  you  appreciate  me,"  answered  Giuseppe, 
advancing  into  the  chamber.  "  Your  father  is  a  good 
man,  but  full  of  prejudices.  I  am  progressive,  and 
he  does  not  understand  progress,  —  that  is  all.  But  I 
am  a  good  fellow,  Signorina,  —  a  capital  fellow  for  all 
that." 

He  looked  at  this  moment,  standing  close  to  the  door 
and  unclasping  his  heavy  cloak,  with  his  pale,  unhealthy 
skin  shining  in  the  lamplight,  and  his  eyes  glistening  with 
a  furtive  meaning,  so  truly  the  reverse  of  a  good  fellow 
that  I  am  not  surprised  at  the  faint  frown  that  perched 
for  a  moment  on  Tommatoo's  forehead,  and  then  suddenly 
slid  off  her  smooth  temples  and  was  lost. 

"  I  am  going,  Signor  Giuseppe,"  she  said,  making  a 
movement  toward  the  door,  between  which  and  her  the 
Italian  was  standing.  "  I  wish  you  good  evening." 


TOMMATOO.  245 

"  Stay  a  moment !  "  he  cried,  interposing.  "  Where  is 
the  worthy  Baioccho1?" 

"  He  is  not  here.  I  do  not  know  where  he  is.  Let 
me  pass,  Signor.  I  am  going  to  search  for  him." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  taken  too  much  of  the  delightful 
cognac  of  which  he  is  so  fond,"  said  Giuseppe,  sneeringly. 

"  My  father  is  a  good  man,  Signor ! "  cried  Tommatoo, 
indignantly,  "and  his  weaknesses  should  be  respected. 
Let  me  pass,  sir  ! " 

"  Not  just  yet,  little  one.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you.  You  know  that  I  love  you.  I  told  you  so  three 
months  ago,  before  I  went  to  Italy.  I  tell  you  so  now 
that  I  have  returned." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  hear  your  confession,  Signor.  I  wish 
to  go  and  seek  my  father." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Tommatoo,"  —  and  he  stretched  his 
long  arm  across  her  till  it  fell  like  a  great  bar  between 
her  and  the  door.  "  Listen.  If  you  become  my  wife, 
this  is  what  I  will  do  for  you.  I  will  take  you  to  Italy, 
and  you  shall  have  a  villa  that  the  Prince  Borghese  might 
envy.  We  will  have  much  money,  —  I  shall  be  very  rich 
indeed,  —  and  all  Italy  shall  not  contain  finer  horses,  car- 
riages, servants,  than  ours.  I  will  be  magnificent,  Tom- 
matoo, gorgeous,  princely.  Perhaps,  too,  I  will  purchase 
a  patent  of  nobility,  —  it  is  to  be  done ;  there 's  the 
banker  Torlonia.  And  how  would  my  Tommatoo  like  to 
sit  in  state  and  be  called  Principezza  1  Ah !  it  would 
be  glorious,  would  it  not]" 

So  excited  was  he  with  the  visions  he  had  himself  con- 
jured up  that  Giuseppe  stretched  forth  his  arms,  and,  en- 
closing Tommatoo  between  them,  drew  her  toward  him, 
while  a  devilish  glitter  shone  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"  We  are  alone,  sweet  dove,"  he  said,  in  a  soft  voice ; 


246  TOMMATOO. 

"  none  in  this  silent  house  to  watch  us.  Will  you  not 
vow  to  be  my  bride,  —  the  bride  of  Giuseppe  that  loves 
you  so,  and  who  will  make  you  a  little  countess  ?  Ah  ! 
the  little  one  is  not  so  cruel  after  all." 

But  he  mistook  Tommatoo's  terrified  immobility  for  a 
timid  though  undemonstrative  assent.  To  his  utter  as- 
tonishment, after  a  moment's  silence,  that  young  lady 
opened  her  mouth  and  shrieked,  "  Gustave  !  Hasten  ! 
Gustave,  I  am  in  danger ! "  with  all  the  power  of  an  ex- 
cellent set  of  lungs. 

"Whew!  who  the  devil  is  Gustave  1"  muttered  Giu- 
seppe, astounded.  "  I  thought  that  none  lived  in  the 
house  but  those  two.  Who  the  devil  is  this  Gustave  ? " 
And  as  he  spoke  he  thrust  his  hand  inside  his  coat  as  if 
feeling  for  some  weapon. 

There  was  an  immediate  response  to  Tommatoo's  call, 
in  the  shape  of  the  descent  of  a  pair  of  boots  four  stairs 
at  a  time.  In  a  few  seconds  the  boots  had  reached  the 
door,  and  Gustave  Beaumont,  who  stood  in  them,  suddenly 
appeared  on  the  scene  of  action. 

"  Diavolo ! "  ground  Giuseppe  between  his  teeth,  as  he 
beheld  this  new  apparition.  Then,  taking  a  stride  back- 
ward, he  seemed  like  some  wild  animal  preparing  for  a 
spring. 

"  Quest  ce  gue  c'est  ?  Qu'est  ce  que  ce  Monsieur  la  ? " 
rapidly  demanded  Monsieur  Gustave,  looking  rather  omi- 
nously at  Giuseppe,  who,  not  understanding  a  word  of 
French,  preserved  a  grim  silence. 

"  0  Gustave !  this  man  persecutes  me.  Protect  me 
from  him !  "  cried  Tommatoo,  bounding  toward  the  young 
Frenchman  and  taking  shelter  as  it  were  under  his  wing. 

"  Soyez  tranquille,  enfant !  "  said  Gustave,  fondly  enfold- 
ing her  little  form  with  his  arm.  "  What  the  devil  you 


TOMMATOO.  247 

do  here,  sare,"  he  continued,  in  English,  seeing  that  Giu- 
seppe had  not  replied  to  his  previous  interrogatories  in 
French.  "  For  why  do  you  bring  the  fright  to  this  young 
girl,  sare?  Who  you  are,  sare1?  I  demand  to  know. 
Moi  !  Gustave  Beaumont !  " 

"  I  reply  myself  not,  sir,  to  your  interrogations,  when 
they  put  themselves  to  me  in  a  manner  so  insolent,"  an- 
swered Giuseppe,  haughtily,  his  eyes  flashing  through  the 
gloom  of  the  half-lit  chamber. 

"  Ask  him  about  our  dear  father,  Gustave,"  cried  Tom- 
matoo,  earnestly,  nestling  up  to  the  young  musician's 
side.  "  I  left  him  here  a  few  moments  since,  and  he  has 
disappeared.  I  feel  sure  that  this  bad  man  knows  some- 
thing of  him.  Ask  him,  dear  Gustave." 

"  One  cannot  know  about  all  the  world,"  answered 
Giuseppe,  before  Gustave  had  time  to  interrogate  him. 
"My  business  is  not  with  the  old  man.  Look  in  the 
cellar  where  the  strong  waters  are  kept.  He  will  be 
there." 

With  a  mocking  laugh  the  Italian  folded  his  cloak 
around  him  and  strode  toward  the  door.  Gustave  re- 
moved his  arm  from  Tommatoo's  waist,  round  which  it 
had  stolen,  and  placed  himself  resolutely  between  Giu- 
seppe and  the  door,  and  barred  his  passage. 

"  You  shall  not  depart  from  here  until  we  know  about 
Signor  Baioccho.  You  are  suspected  a  great  deal." 

"  Let  me  pass  away  from  here,"  cried  Giuseppe,  ad- 
vancing savagely,  "  or,  by  the  head  of  the  Virgin,  you  will 
meet  with  misfortune!"  And  placing  his  hand  in  his 
breast  he  half  drew  a  small  poniard. 

Gustave  saw  the  motion,  and  quick  as  thought  sprang 
on  the  Italian,  weaving  his  young,  sinewy  arms  around 
his  waist,  and  pressing  his  chin  against  his  antagonist's 


248  TOMMATOO. 

breast  until  he  fairly  howled  with  pain.  Tommatoo,  with 
one  faint  moan,  sank  on  her  knees  on  the  ground,  and  one 
might  see,  by  the  clasped  hands  and  the  murmuring  lips, 
dimly  shown  in  the  imperfect  lamp-light,  that  the  little 
one  was  offering  up  her  prayers  to  heaven. 

The  pair  now  struggling  were  evenly  matched  as  far  as 
youth  and  size.  But  in  point  of  endurance  the  Italian 
had  decidedly  the  advantage.  The  sedentary  life  which 
the  young  Frenchman  led  had  relaxed  his  naturally  pow- 
erful muscular  system  ;  and  consequently,  although  capa- 
ble of  a  vast  momentary  effort,  he  was  entirely  unable 
to  sustain  a  prolonged  contest.  For  the  space  of  two 
minutes  nothing  was  heard  in  the  room  but  the  hard 
breathing  of  the  struggling  men  ;  the  slipping  of  the  feet 
on  the  uncarpeted  floor ;  the  sudden  stamp,  as  one  sought 
an  advantage  which  the  other  as  quickly  frustrated.  Gus- 
tave's  main  object  seemed  to  be  to  keep  the  Italian  from 
using  his  poniard,  and  this  he  sought  to  effect  by  pressing 
him  so  closely  in  his  arms  as  to  render  it  an  impossibility 
to  use  his  hands.  For  some  time  he  was  successful  in 
this ;  but  presently  his  want  of  tenacity  of  muscle  showed 
itself  in  the  relaxation  of  his  grip  and  the  quick  recur- 
rence of  his  breaths,  almost  amounting  to  panting.  Inch 
by  inch  Giuseppe  loosened  his  arm  from  the  Frenchman's 
grasp,  and  inch  by  inch  his  hand  moved  toward  his  breast 
where  the  poniard  lay,  his  eyes  all  the  while  flashing  with 
a  light  that  seemed  to  announce  his  approaching  ven- 
geance. In  vain  did  Gustave  strain  every  nerve  to  hold 
his  own.  The  large  drops  of  sweat  gathered  on  his  fore- 
head ;  the  blood  flowed  from  between  his  lips,  bitten  in 
the  agony  of  exertion ;  and  his  knees  fairly  shook  with 
the  power  of  a  will  that  far  exceeded  the  strength  of  the 
frame  on  which  it  was  exercised.  He  could  not  last 


TOMMATOO.  249 

much  longer.  Giuseppe,  in  proportion  as  he  beheld  his 
adversary  sinking,  seemed  to  gain  additional  force.  He 
at  length  extricated  his  arm.  At  length  he  grasped  the 
poniard  and  plucked  it  from  its  sheath.  Held  aloft  an 
instant  over  Gustave's  head,  it  quivered  in  its  descent ; 
when,  with  a  dull,  heavy  thud,  some  enormous  weight  fell 
on  the  back  part  of  the  Italian's  head,  the  dagger  was 
dashed  from  his  hand,  and  he  fell  stunned  and  senseless 
on  the  floor. 

"  Sweet  child,  my  life  owes  itself  to  you  ! "  said  Gus- 
tave,  as  he  stood  over  the  prostrate  form  of  his  antago- 
nist, while  he  gazed  with  intense  astonishment  on  Tom- 
matoo,  who,  revealed  to  him  by  the  Italian's  fall, 
exhibited  herself  as  the  agent  of  that  lucky  event,  as- 
sisted by  an  enormous  bludgeon  which  she  held  in  her 
hand. 

"It  was  an  inspiration  of  heaven,  I  think,"  said  she 
simply.  "  I  was  praying  to  the  Virgin,  when  I  recol- 
lected that  papa's  big  stick  was  in  the  corner ;  so  I  stole 
toward  it,  lifted  it  up,  and  struck  that  bad  fellow  with  it, 
—  only  I  did  not  think  I  could  strike  him  so  hard.  I  hope 
he  is  not  very  much  hurt."  And  she  looked  pityingly 
down  on  the  villain  whom  a  moment  before  she  would 
have  gladly  seen  perish. 

11 'Ore  nom  de  Dieu  !  He  moves  himself!"  cried  Gus- 
tave,  beholding  a  slight  indication  of  returning  animation 
in  the  body  of  the  Italian.  "  Quick,  Tommatoo !  ropes 
to  bind  him  up  !  Bring  me  great,  strong  twines,  for  he  is 
very  dangerous,  this  fellow.  Ha,  rascal !  you  are  there  ! 
You  lie  very  low  now,  brigand !  "We  will  trouble  our- 
selves with  your  care,  sir.  Yes,  we  will  have  the  honor 
to  conduct  you  to  the  bureau  of  the  Chief  of  the  Police, 
and  there  we  will  demand  of  you  that  you  shall  let  us 


250  TOMMATOO. 

know  all  your  villanies.  Quick,  child,  —  the  twines! 
The  fellow  will  get  himself  up  very  presently." 

And  so,  chattering  a  sort  of  mingled  monologue  of  re- 
proach, triumph,  and  sarcasm,  Gustave  passed  the  rope 
which  Tommatoo  brought  him  around  Giuseppe's  body  in 
so  scientific  and  elaborate  a  manner  that  the  wretched 
man  was  as  incapable  of  motion  as  an  Indian  pappoose 
strapped  to  its  board,  and  lay  on  the  floor  with  nothing 
but  the  winking  of  his  large,  dark,  villanous  eyes  to  tell 
of  his  being  animate. 

Now  came  the  great  question,  who  was  to  go  for  the 
police.  If  Gustave  went,  Tommatoo  would  be  left  alone 
in  that  terrible  house,  with  that  terrible  man,  who  might 
unloose  that  wonderful  network  of  bonds  in  which  Gus- 
tave had  enlaced  him.  If  Tommatoo  went,  she  would 
have  to  thread  her  way  alone  through  that  dreary,  dan- 
gerous locality  ;  and  she  confessed  she  had  not  the  cour- 
age to  make  the  attempt.  If  they  both  went,  who  was 
to  take  care  of  the  captive  1  So  they,  perforce,  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  they  must  wait  until  morning ;  and 
accordingly  Gustave,  determined  not  to  lose  sight  of  his 
prize,  lifted  him  on  his  shoulder  as  one  would  a  bale  of 
goods,  and,  carrying  him  up  to  his  own  room,  —  the  room 
in  which  the  Pancorno  resided,  —  threw  him  into  a  corner. 
Then  he  and  Tommatoo  sat  down  gloomily  to  speculate 
and  wonder  over  Baioccho's  disappearance.  It  was  in 
vain  that  they  interrogated  Giuseppe.  That  individual 
glared  at  them  from,  his  corner  like  a  coil  of  ropes  with  a 
pair  of  large  eyes  hidden  somewhere  in  it,  but  would  con- 
descend to  no  reply.  And  so  the  hours  passed,  as  they 
gloomily  watched  for  the  day. 

Weary  with  speculation,  and  heart-sore  enough  with 
pondering  over  the  fate  of  old  Baioccho,  Gustave,  as  the 


TOMMATOO.  251 

small  hours  wore  on,  could  no  longer  resist  his  inclination 
to  invoke  the  genius  of  the  Pancorno  to  disperse  the  sad 
thoughts  that  hung  like  black  clouds  around  him  and 
Tommatoo ;  so  he  sat  down  to  that  mysteriously  con- 
structed instrument,  and  poured  forth  those  wild  improvi- 
sations that  seemed  to  interpret  some  love-passage  in  the 
history  of  young  ^Eolus.  And  when  the  sun  broke  faintly 
over  the  dreary  stone-yard,  and  its  first  rays  fell  on  the 
livid  face  of  the  Italian  lying  bound  in  the  corner,  it 
floated  upward  through  the  sky,  buoyed  hy  those  har- 
monies that  seemed  to  seek  their  native  heaven. 


IV. 

THE   P.EAN    OP   THE   PANCORNO. 

THE  th  Ward  Station-House.     It  was  the  early 

hour  of  the  morning,  before  the  over-night  prisoners  had 
departed  to  be  judged  by  the  immaculate  justices  pre- 
siding in  the  neighboring  district  police  court,  and  the 
poor,  sleepless-looking,  blear-eyed  people  were  emerging 
from  the  "  lock-up  "  in  the  basement,  still  heavy  with  the 
poison  of  bad  liquor  and  spotted  all  over  the  face  with 
the  bites  of  mosquitoes  that  abound  in  all  police  stations. 
Along  the  walls  of  the  general  room  hung  rows  of  glazed 
fire-caps  and  locust-wood  clubs,  while,  stretched  in  rank 
and  file  on  the  floor  beneath,  one  saw  a  quantity  of  India- 
rubber  overshoes,  splashed  with  the  mud  gathered  in  the 
weary  night-tramp  on  the  heels  of  crime.  What  stories 
of  city  vice  spoke  in  those  dirty,  flexible  shoes  !  One  saw 
the  burglar  at  work  with  file  and  centre-bit,  and  accom- 
plice keeping  watch  with  pricked-up  ears.  The  file  grates 
and  the  centre-bit  cuts,  and  the  confederate  strains  his 


252  TOMMATOO. 

hearing  as  the  grasshopper  leaps  from  the  wall ;  but  none 
sees  the  dark  shadows  creeping  round  the  corner,  and 
the  pavement  yields  no  echo  to  the  muffled  feet ;  and  the 
silent  overshoes  steal  on  until,  with  one  quick  leap  and 
one  heavy  blow  with  the  club,  the  burglar  and  confed- 
erate lie  powerless  on  the  ground. 

The  th  Ward  Station-House  was  a  dreary-looking 

establishment.  The  police  captain  in  plain  clothes,  with 
a  presentation  watch  in  his  pocket,  attached  to  a  presenta- 
tion chain,  and  a  presentation  diamond  ring  on  his  finger, 
and  a  presentation  pin  in  his  shirt  front,  which  having 
buttons  did  not  seem  to  require  it,  sat  on  a  high  chair 
behind  a  high  counter  on  which  he  measured  out  justice 
by  the  yard.  Two  or  three  sly-looking  men,  in  plain 
clothes  also,  with  a  furtive  glance  in  the  eyes,  and  an  air 
of  always  seeming  to  be  looking  round  a  corner  that 
bespoke  the  detective,  or  "shadow,"  lounging  on  the 
stout  chairs,  picking  their  teeth  and  watching  everybody, 
even  the  police  captain,  as  if  they  were  ready  at  any  mo- 
ment to  detect  anybody  in  something  illegal.  A  pleas- 
ant-looking chain  of  handcuffs  hung  on  the  wall,  some 
ten  or  twelve  pair  linked  together,  —  cold,  brutal-looking 
loops  of  iron  that  seemed  to  regret  it  was  wrists  and  not 
necks  that  it  was  their  duty  to  clasp.  Sitting  on  the  sill 
of  the  deep  window,  which  opened  into  the  street,  were 
two  little  children  crying  lustily.  They  had  been  lost  or 
had  run  away,  and  in  the  face  of  the  boy,  a  large-eyed 
French  lad,  some  six  years  old,  one  could  see  the  deter- 
mination working  that  made  him  preserve,  when  ques- 
tioned, a  sullen  silence  as  to  his  name  and  home.  The 
other,  a  little  girl,  —  thanks  to  the  philoprogenitive  organ 
of  one  of  the  police,  —  was  munching  a  jam  tart  amidst 
all  her  grief,  and  slobbering  the  unwholesome  pastry  with 
her  tears. 


TOMMATOO.  253 

But  chief  of  all  the  figures  in  that  melancholy  room 
were  three  persons  who  had,  in  the  charge  of  a  policeman, 
arrived  at  early  dawn.  Deep  in  one  corner,  the  farthest 
from  the  door,  sat  Giuseppe,  now  carefully  uncorded  but 
still  scowling  out  of  his  cloak,  as  if  he  might  dart  poi- 
soned poniards  out  of  his  eyes;  while  before  the  high 
counter  on  which  the  prize  police  captain  measured  out 
his  two-pennyworth  of  justice,  stood  Gustave  and  Tomma- 
too, who  was  weeping  bitterly. 

"  You  say  that  you  left  your  father  for  but  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  on  your  return  he  had  disappeared  1 "  in- 
quired the  prize  captain,  solemnly. 

"  Yes,  sir ! "  sobbed  Tommatoo.  "  My  dear,  dear  father ! 
What  has  become  of  him  1  0,  that  bad  man  !  "  —  a 
wicked  glance  at  Giuseppe  in  the  corner. 

"And  when  you  returned  you  found  the  prisoner  in 
the  room  where  you  had  left  your  father  ]  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  I  know  that  he  knows  where  my  father 
is,  —  I  see  it  in  his  eyes.  0,  sir,  make  him  tell,  —  make 
him  tell.  Pinch  him  until  he  tells, — beat  him  until  he 
tells !  " 

The  prize  captain  smiled,  condescendingly. 

"Lieutenant!"  he  said,  "telegraph  a  description  of 
this  Baioccho  to  the  chiefs  office,  with  inquiries." 

Immediately  a  thin  policeman  commenced  working  the 
telegraph  that  lay  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  but  the 
monotonous  click  of  the  instrument  was  but  little  con- 
solation to  the  aching  bosom  of  Tommatoo. 

A  half-hour  passed  —  an  hour  —  during  which  Tom- 
matoo related  over  and  over  again  the  details  of  her  little 
story  to  the  prize  captain.  The  subordinates  of  the  office 
began  to  take  an  interest  in  her,  and  gathered  round  her 
as  she  sat  nestling  close  to  Gustave,  who  was  completely 


254  TOMMATOO. 

amazed  by  the  novelty  of  his  situation,  and  each  had  a 
kind  word  for  the  little  maiden. 

An  hour  passed.  Ah,  how  dreary  !  dreary  to  Giuseppe 
scowling  in  his  cloak,  carefully  watched  by  two  stalwart 
policemen ;  dreary  to  Gustave,  who  wondered  how  police- 
men could  live  without  music  ;  dreary  to  little  Tomma- 
too,  who,  with  swollen  eyes,  and  heavy,  sad  heart,  sorrowed 
for  the  old  musician. 

Presently  there  was  a  bustle.  A  carriage  drove  up  to 
the  door  with  policemen  on  the  box,  and  Tommatoo's 
heart  fluttered.  The  door  of  the  vehicle  opened,  and  out 
tottered  Baioccho,  feebly  singing,  crowing,  dancing,  with 
his  old  eyes  twinkling  with  cognac,  and  a  suit  of  gigantic 
clothes  on,  out  of  which  he  seemed  to  be  endeavoring  to 
scramble.  In  another  instant  Tommatoo  was  in  his  arms. 

"  Ah,  mon  enfant,  ma  fille  bien  aime  !  the  old  father  has 
brought  himself  back.  Per  baccho  !  brought  himself  back 
with  the  joy  in  his  heart.  The  assassin  failed  in  his 
work.  Ha !" 

This  last  exclamation  was  caused  by  a  sudden  rush  for 
the  door  which  Giuseppe  had  made  the  moment  the  old 
musician  appeared.  His  attempt  at  escape  was  vain, 
however,  for  before  he  had  made  two  steps  he  was  col- 
lared, and  a  pair  of  handcuffs  magically  slipped  over  his 
wrists.  He  sat  down  again  sullenly,  but  with  a  face 
white  with  terror. 

"Ha !  serpent  that  thou  art ! "  cried  Baioccho,  placing 
himself  before  Giuseppe  and  shaking  his  withered  old  fist 
at  him.  "Thy  time  has  arrived.  Thou  wilt  hang  for 
this.  So  you  thought  to  drown  the  poor  old  maestro  who 
never  harmed  you  ^  But  no  !  the  God  above  is  good,  and 
when  waves  lifted  themselves  up  to  engulf  me,  and  the 
boat  of  the  passage  came  to  knock  me  on  the  head,  a 


TOMMATOO.  255 

heaven-descended  rope  put  itself  into  my  hand,  and  a 
blessed  sailor  pulled  me  up  to  the  deck.  0,  no !  I  am 
not  dead  yet,  and  the  sweet  dove  that  you  covet  will 
find  some  other  nest  than  thine ! " 

Then  turning  to  the  prize  captain,  the  old  man,  still 
with  one  arm  round  his  daughter,  poured  forth  his  voluble 
tale  ; —  how  Giuseppe  had  flung  him  into  the  river;  how 
he  was  floating  out  to  sea  when  the  ferry-boat  had  come 
down  on  him ;  and  how,  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  some 
one  on  board  had  discerned  him  in  the  water  and  flung 
him  a  rope ; —  all  this  mixed  up  in  his  extraordinary  Eng- 
lish, and  interlarded  with  French  and  Italian  imprecations 
on  the  head  of  Giuseppe,  so  that  the  prize  captain  was 
entirely  bewildered,  and  all  that  he  could  do  was  to  order 
the  assassin  into  the  lock-up,  and  bind  over  the  old  maes- 
tro to  appear  in  evidence.  This  done,  he  and  Gustave 
and  Tommatoo,  now  chirping  like  a  bird,  went  home 
together. 

I  would  not  like  to  count  all  the  petits  verres  de  cognac 
that  the  old  musician  took  that  night ;  but  I  know  that 
Baioccho  on  that  occasion  danced  the  most  singular 
dances,  and  sang  the  most  eccentric  songs,  and  told  Tom- 
matoo and  Gustave  at  least  fifty  times  the  wondrous 
story  of  his  adventures,  and  how  his  brother  was,  he 
believed,  dead,  and  had  left  him  all  his  wealth;  and  so 
the  night  closed  on  jubilation  in  the  old  house  by  the 
stone-yard. 

Strange  to  say,  Baioccho's  brother  was  dead  and  had 
left  him  his  heir.  This,  it  was  supposed,  Giuseppe  had 
learned  in  Italy,  and  had  hastened  home  with  the  inten- 
tion of  profiting  by  an  information  of  which  he  was  the 
earliest  recipient.  Chance,  however,  frustrated  his  plans, 
and  after  a  trial,  in  which  Baioccho's  eccentric  evidence 


256  TOMMATOO. 

was  a  feature,  the  gates  of  the  state  prison  closed  over 
the  assassin. 

In  time  Baiocch^  realized  his  inheritance  and  bade 
farewell  to  the  kitchen.  The  Pancorno  was  brought  be- 
fore the  public,  and  every  one  remembers  the  sensation 
it  created  that  winter  at  the  Antique  Concerts  given  at 
Niblo's.  Women,  while  listening  to  its  wonderful  strains, 
could  not  help  noticing  how  handsome  was  the  young 
Frenchman  who  played  on  it ;  yet  none  saw  the  lovely 
face  that  every  night  gazed  from  the  front  row  on  the 
performer ;  but  I  know  that  Gustave  Beaumont  played 
all  the  better  because  he  knew  that  Tommatoo,  otherwise 
Madame  Beaumont,  was  looking  at  him.  Madame  Beau- 
mont !  Tommatoo  as  a  madame !  Can  you  realize  it  1 
I  can't. 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  257 


MOTHEE  OF  PEAEL. 


I. 

I  MET  her  in  India,  when,  during  an  eccentric  course  of 
travel,  I  visited  the  land  of  palanquins  and  hookahs. 
She  was  a  slender,  pale,  spiritual-looking  girl.  Her  figure 
swayed  to  and  fro  when  she  walked,  like  some  delicate 
plant  brushed  by  a  very  gentle  wind.  Her  face  betokened 
a  rare  susceptibility  of  nervous  organization.  Large, 
dark -gray  eyes,  spanned  by  slender  arches  of  black  eye- 
brows ;  irregular  and  mobile  features ;  a  mouth  large  and 
singularly  expressive,  and  conveying  vague  hints  of  a 
sensual  nature  whenever  she  smiled.  The  paleness  of*  her 
skin  could  hardly  •  be  called  paleness ;  it  was  rather  a 
beautiful  transparency  of  texture,  through  the  whiteness 
of  which  one  beheld  the  underglow  of  life,  as  one  sees  the 
fires  of  a  lamp  hazily  revealed  through  the  white  ground- 
glass  shade  that  envelops  it.  Her  motions  were  full  of  a 
strange  and  subtile  grace.  It  positively  sent  a  thrill  of 
an  indefinable  nature  through  me  to  watch  her  moving 
across  a  room.  It  was  perhaps  a  pleasurable  sensation 
at  beholding  her  perform  so  ordinary  an  act  in  so  un- 
usual a  manner.  Every  wanderer  in  the  fields  has  been 
struck  with  delight  on  beholding  a  tuft  of  thistle-down 
floating  calmly  through  the  still  atmosphere  of  a  summer 
day.  She  possessed  in  the  most  perfect  degree  this  aerial 
serenity  of  motion.  With  all  the  attributes  of  body,  she 

17 


258  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

seemed  to  move  as  if  disembodied.  It  was  a  singular  and 
paradoxical  combination  of  the  real  and  ideal,  and  therein 
I  think  lay  the  charm. 

Then  her  voice.  It  was  like  no  voice  that  I  ever  heard 
before.  It  wa"s  low  and  sweet ;  but  how  many  hundreds 
of  voices  have  I  heard  that  were  as  low  and  just  as  sweet ! 
The  charm  lay  in  something  else.  Each  word  was  uttered 
with  a  sort  of  dovelike  "  coo,"  —  pray  do  not  laugh  at 
the  image,  for  I  am  striving  to  express  what  after  all  is 
perhaps  inexpressible.  However,  I  mean  to  say  that  the 
harsh  gutturals  and  hissing  dentals  of  our  English  tongue 
were  enveloped  by  her  in  a  species  of  vocal  plumage,  so 
that  they  flew  from  her  lips,  not  like  pebbles  or  snakes, 
as  they  do  from  mine  and  yours,  but  like  humming-birds, 
soft  and  round,  and  imbued  with  a  strange  fascination  of 
sound. 

We  fell  in  love,  married,  and  Minnie  agreed  to  share 
my  travel  for  a  year,  after  which  we  were  to  repair  to  my 
native  place  in  Maine,  and  settle  down  into  a  calm,  loving 
country  life. 

It  was  during  this  year  that  our  little  daughter  Pearl 
was  born.  The  way  in  which  she  came  to  be  named 
Pearl  was  this. 

We  were  cruising  in  the  Bay  of  Condatchy,  on  the  west 
coast  of  Ceylon,  in  a  small  vessel  which  I  had  hired  for  a 
month's  trip,  to  go  where  I  listed.  I  had  always  a  singu- 
lar desire  to  make  myself  acquainted  with  the  details  of 
the  pearl  fishery,  and  I  thought  this  would  be  a  good 
opportunity ;  so  with  my  wife  and  servants  and  little 
nameless  child,  —  she  was  only  three  months  old,  —  on 
whom,  however,  we  showered  daily  a  thousand  unwritable 
love-titles,  I  set  sail  for  the  grounds  of  a  celebrated  pearl 
fishery. 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  259 

It  was  a  great  although  an  idle  pleasure  to  sit  in  one  of 
the  small  coasting-boats  in  that  cloudless  and  serene  cli- 
mate, floating  on  an  unruffled  sea,  and  watch  the  tawny 
natives,  naked,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  strip  of 
cotton  cloth  wound  around  their  loins,  plunge  into  the 
marvellously  clear  waters,  and  after  having  shot  down  far 
beyond  sight,  as  if  they  had  been  lead  instead  of  flesh 
and  blood,  suddenly  break  above  the  surface  after  what 
seemed  an  age  of  immersion,  holding  in  their  hands  a 
basket  filled  with  long,  uncouthly  shaped  bivalves,  any 
of  which  might  contain  a  treasure  great  as  that  which 
Cleopatra  wasted  in  her  goblet.  The  oysters  being  flung 
into  the  boat,  a  brief  breathing-spell  was  taken,  and  then 
once  more  the  dark-skinned  diver  darted  down  like  some 
agile  fish,  to  recommence  his  search.  For  the  pearl 
oyster  is  by  no  means  to  be  found  in  the  prodigal  pro- 
fusion in  which  his  less  aristocratic  brethren,  the  mill- 
ponds  and  blue-points  and  chinkopins,  exist.  He  is  rare 
and  exclusive,  and  does  not  bestow  himself  liberally. 
He,  like  all  high-born  castes,  is  not  prolific. 

Sometimes  a  fearful  moment  of  excitement  would  over- 
take us.  While  two  or  three  of  the  pearl-divers  were 
under  water,  the  calm,  glassy  surface  of  the  sea  would  be 
cleft  by  what  seemed  the  thin  blade  of  a  sharp  knife,  cut- 
ting through  the  water  with  a  slow,  even,  deadly  motion. 
This  we  knew  to  be  the  dorsal  fin  of  the  man-eating 
shark.  Nothing  can  give  an  idea  of  the  horrible  sym- 
bolism of  that  back  fin.  To  a  person  utterly  unacquainted 
with  the  habits  of  the  monster,  the  silent,  stealthy,  re- 
sistless way  in  which  that  membranous  blade  divided  the 
water  would  inevitably  suggest  a  cruelty  swift,  unap- 
peasable, relentless.  This  may  seem  exaggerated  to  any 
one  who  has  not  seen  the  spectacle  I  speak  of.  Every 


260  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

seafaring  man  will  admit  its  truth.  When  this  ominous 
apparition  became  visible,  all  on  board  the  fishing-boats 
were  instantly  in  a  state  of  excitement.  The  water  was 
beaten  with  oars  until  it  foamed.  The  natives  shouted 
aloud  with  the  most  unearthly  yells ;  missiles  of  all  kinds 
were  flung  at  this  Seeva  of  the  ocean,  and  a  relentless 
attack  was  kept  up  on  him  until  the  poor  fellows  groping 
below  showed  their  mahogany  faces  above  the  surface. 
We  were  so  fortunate  as  not  to  have  been  the  spectators 
of  any  tragedy,  but  we  knew  from  hearsay  that  it  often 
happened  that  the  shark  —  a  fish,  by  the  way,  possessed 
of  a  rare  intelligence  —  quietly  bided  his  time  until  the 
moment  the  diver  broke  water,  when  there  would  be  a 
lightning-like  rush,  a  flash  of  the  white  belly  as  the  brute 
turned  on  his  side  to  snap,  a  faint  cry  of  agony  from  the 
victim,  and  then  the  mahogany  face  would  sink  convulsed, 
never  to  rise  again,  while  a  great  crimson  clot  of  blood 
would  hang  suspended  in  the  calm  ocean,  the  red  memo- 
rial of  a  sudden  and  awful  fatality. 

One  breathless  day  we  were  floating  in  .our  little  boat 
at  the  pearl  fishery,  watching  the  diving.  "We"  means 
my  wife,  myself,  and  our  little  daughter,  who  was  nestled 
in  the  arms  of  her  "  ayah,"  or  colored  nurse.  It  was  one 
of  those  tropical  mornings  the  glory  of  which  is  inde- 
scribable. The  sea  was  so  transparent  that  the  boat  in 
which  we  lay,  shielded  from  the  sun  by  awnings,  seemed 
to  hang  suspended  in  air.  The  tufts  of  pink  and  white 
coral  that  studded  the  bed  of  the  ocean  beneath  were  as 
distinct  as  if  they  were  growing  at  our  feet.  We  seemed 
to  be  gazing  upon  a  beautiful  parterre  of  variegated 
candytuft.  The  shores,  fringed  with  palms  and  patches 
of  a  gigantic  species  of  cactus,  which  was  then  in  bloom, 
were  as  still  and  serene  as  if  they  had  been  painted  on 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  261 

glass.  Indeed,  the  whole  landscape  looked  like  a  beautiful 
scene  beheld  through  a  glorified  stereoscope  ; —  eminently 
real  as  far  as  detail  went,  but  fixed  and  motionless  as 
death.  Nothing  broke  the  silence  save  the  occasional 
plunge  of  the  divers  into  the  water,  or  the  noise  of  the 
large  oysters  falling  into  the  bottom  of  the  boats.  In  the 
distance,  on  a  small,  narrow  point  of  land,  a  strange 
crowd  of  human  beings  was  visible.  Oriental  pearl  mer- 
chants, Fakirs  selling  amulets,  Brahmins  in  their  dirty 
white  robes,  all  attracted  to  the  spot  by  the  prospect  of 
gain  (as  fish  collect  round  a  handful  of  bait  flung  into  a 
pond),  bargaining,  cheating,  and  strangely  mingling  religion 
and  lucre.  My  wife  and  I  lay  back  on  the  cushions  that 
lined  the  after  part  of  our  little  skiff,  languidly  gazing  on 
the  sea  and  the  sky  by  turns.  Suddenly  our  attention 
was  aroused  by  a  great  shout,  which  was  followed  by  a 
volley  of  shrill  cries  from  the  pearl-fishing  boats.  On 
turning  in  that  direction,  the  greatest  excitement  was 
visible  among  the  different  crews.  Hands  were  pointed, 
white  teeth  glittered  in  the  sun,  and  every  dusky  form 
was  gesticulating  violently.  Then  two  or  three  negroes 
seized  some  long,  poles  and  commenced  beating  the  water 
violently.  Others  flung  gourds  and  calabashes  and  odd 
pieces  of  wood  and  stones  in  the  direction  of  a  particular 
spot  that  lay  between  the  nearest  fishing-boat  and  our- 
selves. The  only  thing  visible  in  this  spot  was  a  black, 
sharp  blade,  thin  as  the  blade  of  a  pen-knife,  that  ap- 
peared, slowly  and  evenly  cutting  through  the  still  water. 
No  surgical  instrument  ever  glided  through  human  flesh 
with  a  more  silent,  cruel  calm.  It  needed  not  the  cry 
of  "  Shark !  shark  ! "  to  tell  us  what  it  was.  In  a  mo- 
ment we  had  a  vivid  picture  of  that  unseen  monster, 
with  his  small,  watchful  eyes,  and  his  huge  mouth  with 


262  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

its  double  row  of  fangs,  presented  to  our  mental  vision. 
There  were  three  divers  under  water  at  this  moment, 
while  directly  above  them  hung  suspended  this  remorse- 
less incarnation  of  death.  My  wife  clasped  my  hand  con- 
vulsively, and  became  deathly  pale.  I  stretched  out  the 
other  hand  instinctively,  and  grasped  a  revolver  which 
lay  beside  me.  I  was  in  the  act  of  cocking  it  when  a 
shriek  of  unutterable  agony  from  the  ayah  burst  on  our 
ears.  I  turned  my  head  quick  as  a  flash  of  lightning, 
and  beheld  her,  with  empty  arms,  hanging  over  the  gun- 
wale of  the  boat,  while  down  in  the  calm  sea  I  saw  a 
tiny  little  face,  swathed  in  white,  sinking  —  sinking  — 
sinking!  w 

What  are  words  to  paint  such  a  crisis  ?  What  pen, 
however  vigorous,  could  depict  the  pallid,  convulsed  face 
of  my  wife,  my  own  agonized  countenance,  the  awful 
despair  that  settled  on  the  dark  face  of  the  ayah,  as  we 
three  beheld  the  love  of  our  lives  serenely  receding  from 
us  forever  in  that  impassable,  transparent  ocean  3  My 
pistol  fell  from  my  grasp.  I,  who  rejoiced  in  a  vigor  of 
manhood  such  as  few  attain,  was  struck  dumb  and  help- 
less. My  brain  whirled  in  its  dome.  Every  outward 
object  vanished  from  my  sight,  and  all  I  saw  was  a  vast, 
translucent  sea  and  one  sweet  face,  rosy  as  a  sea-shell, 
shining  in  its  depths,  —  shining  with  a  vague  smile  that 
seemed  to  bid  me  a  mute  farewell  as  it  floated  away  to 
death !  I  was  roused  from  a  trance  of  anguish  by  the 
flitting  of  a  dark  form  through  the  clear  water,  cleaving 
its  way  swiftly  toward  that  darling  little  shape,  that  grew 
dimmer  and  dimmer  every  second  as  it  settled  in  the  sea. 
We  all  saw  it,  and  the  same  thought  struck  us  all.  That 
terrible,  deadly  back  fin  was  the  key  of  our  sudden  terror. 
The  shark  !  A  simultaneous  shriek  burst  from  our  lips. 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  263 

I  tried  to  jump  overboard,  but  was  withheld  by  some  one. 
Little  use  had  I  done  so,  for  I  could  not  swim  a  stroke. 
The  dark  shape  glided  on  like  a  flash  of  light.  It  reached 
our  treasure.  In  an  instant  all  we  loved  on  earth  was 
blotted  from  our  sight !  My  heart  stood  still.  My  breath 
ceased ;  life  trembled  on  my  lips.  The  next  moment  a 
dusky  head  shot  out  of  the  water  close  to  our  boat,  —  a 
dusky  head  whose  parted  lips  gasped  for  breath,  but 
whose  eyes  shone  with  the  brightness  of  a  superhuman 
joy.  The  second  after,  two  tawny  hands  held  a  dripping 
white  mass  above  water,  and  the  dark  head  shouted  to 
the  boatmen.  Another  second,  and  the  brave  pearl-diver 
had  clambered  in  and  laid  my  little  daughter  at  her 
mother's  feet.  This  was  the  shark  !  This  the  man-eater  ! 
This  hero  in  sun-burned  hide,  who,  with  his  quick,  aquatic 
sight,  had  seen  our  dear  one  sinking  through  the  sea,  and 
had  brought  her  up  to  us  again,  pale  and  dripping,  but 
still  alive ! 

What  tears  and  what  laughter  fell  on  us  three  by  turns 
as  we  named  our  gem  rescued  from  the  ocean  "  Little 
Pearl"! 


II. 

I  HAD  been  about  a  year  settled  at  my  pleasant  home- 
stead in  Maine,  when  the  great  misfortune  of  my  life  fell 
upon  me. 

My  existence  was  almost  exceptional  in  its  happiness. 
Independent  in  circumstances;  master  of  a  beautiful 
place,  the  natural  charms  of  which  were  carefully  sec- 
onded by  art ;  married  to  a  woman  whose  refined  and 
cultivated  mind  seemed  to  be  in  perfect  accord  with  my 


264  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

own;  and  the  father  of  the  loveliest  little  maiden  that 
ever  tottered  upon  tiny  feet,  —  what  more  could  I  wish 
for?  In  the  summer-time  we  varied  the  pleasant  mo- 
notony of  our  rustic  life  by  flying  visits  to  Newport  and 
Nahant.  In  the  winter,  a  month  or  six  weeks  spent  in 
New  York,  party-going  and  theatre-going,  surfeited  us 
with  the  rapid  life  of  a  metropolis,  but  gave  us  food  for 
conversation  for  months  to  come.  The  intervals  were 
well  filled  up  with  farming,  reading,  and  the  social  inter- 
course into  which  we  naturally  fell  with  the  old  residents 
around  us. 

I  said  a  moment  ago  that  I  was  perfectly  happy  at  this 
time.  I  was  wrong.  I  was  happy,  but  not  perfectly 
happy.  A  vague  grief  overshadowed  me.  My  wife's 
health  gave  me  at  times  great  concern.  Charming  and 
spirituelle  as  she  was  on  most  occasions,  there  were  times 
when  she  seemed  a  prey  to  a  brooding  melancholy.  She 
would  sit  for  hours  in  the  twilight,  in  what  appeared  to 
be  a  state  of  mental  apathy,  and  at  such  times  it  was 
almost  impossible  to  rouse  her  into  even  a  moderate  state 
of  conversational  activity.  When  I  addressed  her,  she 
would  languidly  turn  her  eyes  on  me,  droop  the  eyelids 
over  the  eyeballs,  and  gaze  at  me  with  a  strange  expres- 
sion that,  I  knew  not  why,  sent  a  shudder  through  my 
limbs.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  questioned  her  to  ascertain 
if  she  suffered.  She  was  perfectly  well,  she  said,  but 
weary.  I  consulted  my  old  friend  and  neighbor,  Doctor 
Melony,  but,  after  a  careful  study  of  her  constitution,  he 
proclaimed  her,  after  his  own  fashion,  to  be  "  Sound  as  a 
bell,  sir  !  sound  as  a  bell ! " 

To  me,  however,  there  was  a  funereal  tone  in  this  bell. 
If  it  did  not  toll  of  death,  it  at  least  proclaimed  disaster. 
I  cannot  say  why  those  dismal  forebodings  should  have 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  265 

possessed  me.  Let  who  will  explain  the  many  presenti- 
ments of  good  and  bad  fortune  which  waylay  men  in 
the  road  of  life,  as  the  witches  used  to  waylay  the  trav- 
eller of  old,  and  rise  up  in  his  path  prognosticating 
or  cursing. 

At  times,  though,  Minnie,  as  if  to  cheat  speculation, 
displayed  a  gayety  and  cheerfulness  beyond  all  expecta- 
tion. She  would  propose  little  excursions  to  noted  places 
in  our  neighborhood,  and  no  eyes  in  the  party  would  be 
brighter,  no  laugh  more  ringing  than  hers.  Yet  these 
bright  spots  were  but  checkers  on  a  life  of  gloom ; — days 
passed  in  moodiness  and  silence ;  nights  of  restless  toss- 
ing on  the  couch ;  and  ever  and  anon  that  strange,  fur- 
tive look  following  me  as  I  went  to  and  fro ! 

As  the  year  slowly  sailed  through  the  green  banks  of 
summer  into  the  naming  scenery  of  the  fall,  I  resolved  to 
make  some  attempt  to  dissipate  this  melancholy  under 
which  my  wife  so  obviously  labored. 

"  Minnie,"  I  said  to  her,  one  day,  "  I  feel  rather  dull. 
Let  us  go  to  New  York  for  a  few  weeks." 

"  What  for  ] "  she  answered,  turning  her  face  around 
slowly  until  her  eyes  rested  on  mine,  —  eyes  still  filled 
with  that  inexplicable  expression  !  "  What  for  1  To 
amuse  ourselves  1  My  dear  Gerald,  how  can  New  York 
amuse  you  ]  We  live  in  a  hotel,  each  room  of  which  is  a 
stereotyped  copy  of  the  other.  We  get  the  same  bill  of 
fare  —  with  a  fresh  date  —  every  day  for  dinner.  We 
go  to  parties  that  are  a  repetition  of  the  parties  we  went 
to  last  year.  The  same  thin-legged  young  man  leads  '  the 
German,'  and  one  could  almost  imagine  that  the  stewed 
terrapin  which  you  got  for  supper  had  been  kept  over 
since  the  previous  winter.  There  is  no  novelty,  —  no 
nothing." 


266  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

"  There  is  a  novelty,  my  dear,"  I  said,  although  I  could 
not  help  smiling  at  her  languid  dissection  of  a  New  York 
season.  "You  love  the  stage,  and  a  new,  and,  as  I  am 
told,  a  great  actress,  has  appeared  there.  I,  for  my  part, 
want  to  see  her." 

"  Who  is  she  1  But,  before  you  answer,  I  know  per- 
fectly well  what  a  great  American  dramatic  novelty  is. 
She  has  been  gifted  by  nature  with  fine  eyes,  a  good  fig- 
ure, and  a  voice  which  has  a  tolerable  scale  of  notes. 
Some  one,  or  something,  puts  it  into  her  head  that  she 
was  born  into  this  world  for  the  special  purpose  of  inter- 
preting Shakespeare.  She  begins  by  reciting  to  her 
friends  in  a  little  village,  and,  owing  to  their  encourage- 
ment, determines  to  take  lessons  from  some  broken-down 
actor,  who  ekes  out  an  insufficient  salary  by  giving  lessons 
in  elocution.  Under  his  tuition  —  as  she  would  under 
the  instruction  of  any  professor  of  that  abominable  art 
known  as  '  elocution '  —  she  learns  how  to  display  her 
voice  at  the  expense  of  the  sense  of  the  author.  She 
thinks  of  nothing  but  rising  and  falling  inflections,  swim- 
ming entrances  and  graceful  exits.  Her  idea  of  great 
emotion  is  hysterics,  and  her  acme  of  by-play  is  to  roll 
her  eyes  at  the  audience.  You  listen  in  vain  for  a  natu- 
ral intonation  of  the  voice.  You  look  in  vain  on  the 
painted  —  over-painted  —  face  for  a  single  reflex  of  the 
emotions  depicted  by  the  dramatist;  —  emotions  that,  I  am 
sure,  when  he  was  registering  them  on  paper,  flitted  over 
his  countenance,  and  thrilled  his  whole  being  as  the  au- 
roral lights  shimmer  over  the  heavens,  and  send  a  vibra- 
tion through  all  nature !  My  dear  husband,  I  am  tired 
of  your  great  American  actress.  Please  go  and  buy  me 
half  a  dozen  dolls." 

I  laughed.     She  was  in  her  cynical  mood,  and  none 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  267 

could  be  more  sarcastic  than  she.  But  I  was  determined 
to  gain  my  point. 

"  But,"  I  resumed,  "  the  actress  I  am  anxious  to  see  is 
the  very  reverse  of  the  too  truthful  picture  you  have 
painted.  I  want  to  see  Matilda  Heron." 

"  And  who  is  Matilda  Heron  1 " 

"Well,  I  can't  very  well  answer  your  question  defi- 
nitely, Minnie ;  but  this  I  know,  that  she  has  come  from 
somewhere,  and  fallen  like  a  bomb-shell  in  New  York. 
The  metaphor  is  not  too  pronounced.  Her  appearance 
has  been  an  explosion.  Now,  you  blase  critic  of  actresses, 
here  is  a  chance  for  a  sensation !  Will  you  go  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  will,  dear  Gerald.  But  if  I  am  disap- 
pointed, call  on  the  gods  to  help  you.  I  will  punish  you, 
if  you  mislead  me,  in  some  awful  manner.  I  '11  —  write 
a  play,  or  —  go  on  the  stage  myself." 

"Minnie,"  said  I,  kissing  her  smooth  white  forehead, 
"  if  you  go  on  the  stage,  you  will  make  a  most  miserable 
failure." 


III. 

WE  went  to  New  York.  Matilda  Heron  was  then  play- 
ing her  first  engagement  at  Wallack's  Theatre.  The  day 
after  I  arrived  I  secured  a  couple  of  orchestra  seats,  and 
before  the  curtain  rose  Minnie  and  I  were  installed  in  our 
places,  —  I  full  of  anticipation,  she,  as  all  prejudging 
critics  are,  determined  to  be  terribly  severe  if  she  got 
a  chance. 

We  were  too  well  bred,  too  well  brought  up,  too  well 
educated,  and  too  cosmopolitan,  to  feel  any  qualms 
about  the  morality  of  the  play.  We  had  read  it  in  the 


268  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

French  under  the  title  of  La  Dame  aux  Camelias,  and 
it  was  now  produced  in  dramatic  form  under  the  title 
of  "  Camille." 

If  my  wife  did  not  get  a  chance  for  criticism,  she  at 
least  got  a  sensation.  Miss  Heron's  first  entrance  was 
wonderfully  unconventional.  The  woman  dared  to  come 
in  upon  that  painted  scene  as  if  it  really  was  the  home 
apartment  it  was  represented  to  be.  She  did  not  slide 
in  with  her  face  to  the  audience,  and  wait  for  the  mockery 
that  is  called  "  a  reception."  She  walked  in  easily,  natu- 
rally, unwitting  of  any  outside  eyes.  The  petulant  man- 
ner in  which  she  took  off  her  shawl,  the  commonplace 
conversational  tone  in  which  she  spoke  to  her  servant, 
were  revelations  to  Minnie  and  myself.  Here  was  a  dar- 
ing reality.  Here  was  a  woman  who,  sacrificing  for  the 
moment  all  conventional  prejudices,  dared  to  play  the 
lorette  as  the  lorette  herself  plays  her  dramatic  life, 
with  all  her  whims,  her  passion,  her  fearlessness  of  conse- 
quences, her  occasional  vulgarities,  her  impertinence,  her 
tenderness  and  self-sacrifice  ! 

It  was  not  that  we  did  not  see  faults.  Occasionally 
Miss  Heron's  accent  was  bad,  and  had  a  savor  of  Celtic 
origin.  But  what  mattered  accent,  or  what  mattered 
elocution,  when  we  felt  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  an 
inspired  woman  ! 

Miss  Heron's  Camille  electrified  both  Minnie  and  my- 
self. My  wife  was  particularly  bouleversee.  The  artist 
we  were  beholding  had  not  in  a  very  marked  manner  any 
of  those  physical  advantages  which  Minnie  had  predicated 
in  her  onslaught  on  the  dramatic  stars.  It  is  true  that 
Miss  Heron's  figure  was  commanding,  and  there  was 
a  certain  powerful  light  in  her  eyes  that  startled  and 
thrilled  ;  but  there  was  not  the  beauty  of  the  "  favorite 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  269 

actress."  The  conquest  that  she  achieved  was  purely 
intellectual  and  magnetic. 

Of  course  we  were  present  at  the  next  performance. 
It  was  "Medea."  We  then  beheld  the  great  actress 
under  a  new  phase.  In  Camille  she  died  for  love ;  in 
Medea  she  killed  for  love.  I  never  saw  a  human  being 
so  rocked  by  emotion  as  was  my  wife  during  the  pro- 
gress of  this  tragedy.  Her  countenance  was  a  mirror  of 
every  incident  and  passion.  She  swayed  to  and  fro  under 
those  gusts  of  indignant  love  that  the  actress  sent  forth 
from  time  to  time,  and  which  swept  the  house  like  a 
storm.  When  the  curtain  fell  she  sat  trembling,  — 
vibrating  still  with  those  thunders  of  passion  that  the 
swift  lightnings  of  genius  had  awakened.  She  seemed 
almost  in  a  dream,  as  I  took  her  to  the  carnage,  and  dur- 
ing the  drive  to  our  hotel  she  was  moody  and  silent.  It 
was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  get  her  to  converse  about  the 
play.  That  the  actress  was  great,  she  acknowledged  in 
the  briefest  possible  sentence.  Then  she  leaned  back  and 
seemed  to  fall  into  a  reverie  from  which  nothing  would 
arouse  her. 

I  ordered  supper  into  our  sitting-room,  and  made  Min- 
nie drink  a  couple  of  glasses  of  champagne  in  the  hope 
that  it  would  rouse  her  into  some  state  of  mental  activity. 
All  my  efforts,  however,  were  without  avail.  She  was 
silent  and  strange,  and  occasionally  shivered  as  if  pene- 
trated with  a  sudden  chill.  Shortly  after,  she  pleaded 
weariness  and  retired  for  the  night,  leaving  me  puzzled 
more  than  ever  by  the  strangeness  of  her  case. 

An  hour  or  two  afterward,  when  I  went  to  bed,  I  found 
Minnie  apparently  asleep.  Never  had  she  seemed  more 
beautiful.  Her  lips  were  like  a  bursting  rosebud  about 
to  blow  under  the  influence  of  a  perfumed  wind,  just 


270  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

parted  as  they  were  by  the  gentle  breath  that  came  and 
went.  The  long,  dark  lashes  that  swept  over  her  cheek 
gave  a  pensive  charm  to  her  countenance,  which  was 
heightened  by  a  rich  stray  of  nutty  hair  that  swept 
loosely  across  her  bosom,  tossed  in  the  restlessness  of 
slumber.  I  printed  a  light  kiss  upon  her  forehead,  and, 
with  an  unuttered  prayer  for  her  welfare,  lay  down  to 
rest. 

I  know  not  how  long  I  had  been  asleep  when  I  was 
awakened  from  a  profound  slumber  by  one  of  those  inde- 
scribable sensations  of  mortal  peril  which  seem  to  sweep 
over  the  soul,  and  with  as  it  were  the  thrill  of  its  pas- 
sage call  louder  than  a  trumpet,  Awake  !  arouse !  your 
life  hangs  by  a  hair !  That  this  strange  physical  warning 
is  in  all  cases  the  result  of  a  magnetic  phenomenon  I 
have  not  the  slightest  doubt.  To  prove  it,  steal  softly, 
ever  so  softly,  to  the  bedside  of  a  sleeper,  and,  although 
no  noise  betrays  your  presence,  the  slumberer  will  almost 
invariably  awaken,  aroused  by  a  magnetic  perception  of 
your  proximity.  How  much  more  powerfully  must  the 
stealthy  approach  of  one  who  harbors  sinister  designs 
affect  the  slumbering  victim  !  An  antagonistic  magnet- 
ism hovers  near ;  the  whole  of  the  subtile  currents  that 
course  through  the  electrical  machine  known  as  man  are 
shocked  with  a  powerful  repulsion,  and  the  sentinel  mind 
whose  guard  has  just  been  relieved,  and  which  is  slumber- 
ing in  its  quarters,  suddenly  hears  the  .rappel  beaten  and 
leaps  to  arms. 

In  the  midst  of  my  deep  sleep  I  sprang  with  a  sudden 
bound  upright,  with  every  faculty  alert.  By  one  of  those 
unaccountable  mysteries  of  our  being,  I  realized,  before 
my  eyes  could  be  by  any  possibility  alive  to  external 
objects,  the  presence  of  a  great  horror.  Simultaneously 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  271 

with  this  conviction,  or  following  it  so  quickly  as  to  be 
almost  twin  with  it,  I  beheld  the  vivid  flash  of  a  knife, 
and  felt  an  acute  pain  in  my  shoulder.  The  next  in- 
stant all  was  plain,  as  if  the  scene,  instead  of  passing  in 
a  half-illuminated  bedroom,  had  occurred  in  the  full  sun- 
light of  the  orient.  My  wife  was  standing  by  my  bed- 
side, her  hands  firmly  pinioned  in  mine,  while  on  the 
white  coverlet  lay  a  sharp  table-knife  red  with  the  blood 
which  was  pouring  from  a  deep  wound  in  my  shoulder. 
I  had  escaped  death  by  a  miracle.  Another  instant 
and  the  long  blade  would  have  been  driven  through  iny 
heart. 

I  never  was  so  perfectly  self-possessed  as  on  that  ter- 
rible occasion.  I  forced  Minnie  to  sit  on  the  bed,  while  I 
looked  calmly  into  her  face.  She  returned  my  gaze  with 
a  sort  of  serene  defiance. 

"  Minnie,"  I  said,  "  I  loved  you  dearly.  Why  did  you 
do  this]" 

"  I  was  weary  of  you,"  she  answered,  in  a  cold,  even 
voice,  —  a  voice  so  level  that  it  seemed  to  be  spoken  on 
ruled  lines,  —  "  that  is  my  reason." 

Great  heavens  !  I  was  not  prepared  for  this  sangui- 
nary calm.  I  had  looked  for  perhaps  some  indication  of 
somnambulism ;  I  had  vaguely  hoped  even  for  the  inco- 
herence or  vehemence  of  speech  which  would  have  beto- 
kened a  sudden  insanity,  —  anything,  everything  but  this 
awful  avowal  of  a  deliberate  design  to  murder  a  man  who 
loved  her  better  than  the  life  she  sought !  Still  I  clung 
to  hope.  I  could  not  believe  that  this  gentle,  refined 
creature  could  deliberately  quit  my  side  at  midnight,  pos- 
sess herself  of  the  very  knife  which  had  been  used  at  the 
table,  across  which  I  lavished  a  thousand  fond  attentions, 
and  remorselessly  endeavor  to  stab  me  to  the  heart.  It 


272  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

must  be  the  act  of  one  insane,  or  laboring  under  some 
momentary  hallucination.  I  determined  to  test  her  fur- 
ther. I  adopted  a  tone  of  vehement  reproach,  hoping,  if 
insanity  was  smouldering  in  her  brain,  to  fan  the  embers 
to  such  a  flame  as  would  leave  no  doubt  on  my  mind. 
I  would  rather  she  should  be  mad  than  feel  that  she 
hated  me. 

"  Woman ! "  I  thundered  fiercely,  "  you  must  have  the 
mind  of  a  fiend  to  repay  my  love  in  this  manner.  Beware 
of  my  vengeance.  Your  punishment  shall  be  terrible." 

"  Punish  me,"  she  answered ;  and  oh !  how  serene  and 
distant  her  voice  sounded  !  —  "  punish  me  how  and  when 
you  will.  It  will  not  matter  much."  The  tones  were 
calm,  assured,  and  fearless.  The  manner  perfectly  cohe- 
rent. A  terrible  suspicion  shot  across  my  mind. 

1  'Have  I  a  rival?"  I  asked  ;  "  is  it  a  guilty  love  that 
has  prompted  you  to  plan  my  death  1  If  so,  I  am  sorry 
you  did  not  kill  me." 

"  I  do  not  know  any  other  man  whom  I  love.  I  can- 
not tell  why  it  is  that  I  do  not  love  you.  You  are  very 
kind  and  considerate,  but  your  presence  wearies  me.  I 
sometimes  see  vaguely,  as  in  a  dream,  my  ideal  of  a  hus- 
band, but  he  has  no  existence  save  in  my  soul,  and  I  sup- 
pose I  shall  never  meet  him." 

"  Minnie,  you  are  mad  !  "  I  cried,  despairingly. 

"Am  I?"  she  answered,  with  a  faint,  sad  smile  slowly 
overspreading  her  pale  face,  like  the  dawn  breaking  imper- 
ceptibly over  a  cold  gray  lake.  "  Well,  you  can  think  so 
if  you  will.  It  is  all  one  to  me." 

I  never  beheld  such  apathy,  —  such  stoical  indifference. 
Had  she  exhibited  fierce  rage,  disappointment  at  her  fail- 
ure, a  mad  thirst  for  my  life-blood,  I  should  have  preferred 
it  to  this  awful  stagnation  of  sensibility,  this  frozen  still- 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  273 

ness  of  the  heart.  I  felt  all  my  nature  harden  suddenly 
toward  her.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  face  became  fixed 
and  stern  as  a  bronze  head. 

"You  are  an  inexplicable  monster,"  I  said,  in  tones 
that  startled  myself,  they  were  so  cold  and  metallic ; 
"  and  I  shall  not  try  to  decipher  you.  I  will  use  every 
endeavor  to  ascertain,  however,  whether  it  is  some  spe- 
cies of  insanity  that  has  thus  afflicted  you,  or  whether 
you  are  ruled  by  the  most  vicious  soul  that  ever  inhab- 
ited a  human  body.  You  shall  return  to  my  house  to- 
morrow, when  I  will  place  you  under  the  charge  of  Doctor 
Melony.  You  will  live  in  the  strictest  seclusion.  I  need 
not  tell  you  that,  after  what  has  happened,  you  must 
henceforth  be  a  stranger  to  your  daughter.  Hands  crim- 
soned with  her  father's  blood  are  not  those  that  I  would 
see  caressing  her." 

"  Very  well.  It  is  all  one  to  me  where  I  am,  or  how  I 
live." 

«  Go  to  bed." 

She  went,  calmly  as  a  well-taught  child,  coolly  turning 
over  the  pillow  on  which  was  sprinkled  the  blood  from 
the  wound  in  my  shoulder,  so  as  to  present  the  under 
side  for  her  beautiful,  guilty  head  to  repose  on ;  gently 
removed  the  murderous  knife,  which  was  still  lying  on 
the  coverlet,  and  placed  it  on  a  little  table  by  the  side  of 
the  bed,  and  then  without  a  word  calmly  composed  her- 
self to  sleep. 

It  was  inexplicable.  I  stanched  my  wound  and  sat 
down  to  think. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  I  had  visited  many 
lunatic  asylums,  and  had,  as  one  of  the  various  items 
in  my  course  of  study,  read  much  on  the  phenomena 
of  insanity,  which  had  always  been  exceedingly  interest- 

18 


274  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

ing  to  me  for  this  reason :  I  thought  it  might  be  that 
only  through  the  aberrated  intellect  can  we  approach 
the  secrets  of  the  normal  mind.  The  castle,  fortified 
and  garrisoned  at  every  angle  and  loophole,  guards  its 
interior  mysteries ;  it  is  only  when  the  fortress  crum- 
bles that  we  can  force  our  way  inside,  and  detect  the 
secret  of  its  masonry,  its  form,  and  the  theory  of  its 
construction. 

But  in  all  my  researches  I  had  never  met  with  any  symp- 
toms of  a  diseased  mind  similar  to  these  my  wife  exhibited. 
There  was  a  uniform  coherence  that  completely  puzzled 
me.  Her  answers  to  my  questions  were  complete  and 
determinate,  —  that  is,  they  left  no  room  for  what  is 
called  "  cross-examination."  No  man  ever  spent  such  a 
night  of  utter  despair  as  I  did,  watching  in  that  dimly  lit 
chamber  until  dawn,  while  she,  my  would-be  murderess, 
lay  plunged  in  so  profound  and  calm  a  slumber  that  she 
might  have  been  a  wearied  angel  rather  than  a  self-pos- 
sessed demon.  The  mystery  of  her  guilt  was  maddening  ; 
and  I  sat  hour  after  hour  in  my  easy-chair,  seeking  in 
vain  for  a  clew,  until  the  dawn,  spectral  and  gray,  arose 
over  the  city.  Then  I  packed  up  all  our  luggage,  and 
wandered  restlessly  over  the  house  until  the  usual  hour 
for  rising  had  struck. 

On  returning  to  my  room  I  found  my  wife  just  com- 
pleting her  toilet.  To  my  consternation  and  horror  she 
flung  herself  into  my  arms  as  I  entered. 

"  0  Gerald !  "  she  cried,  "  I  have  been  so  frightened. 
What  has  brought  all  this  blood  on  the  pillow  and  the 
sheets  ?  Where  have  you  been  ?  When  I  awoke  and 
missed  you  and  discovered  these  stains,  I  knew  not  what 
to  think.  Are  you  hurt  ?  What  is  the  matter  1 " 

I  stared  at  her.     There  was  not  a  trace  of  conscious 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  .     275 

guilt  in  her  countenance.  It  was  the  most  consummate 
acting.  Its  very  perfection  made  me  the  more  relentless. 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  this  hypocrisy,"  I  said  ;  "  it 
will  not  alter  my  resolve.  We  depart  for  home  to-day. 
Our  luggage  is  packed,  the  bills  are  all  paid.  Speak  to 
me,  I  pray  you,  as  little  as  possible." 

"  What  is  it  1  Am  I  dreaming  1  0  Gerald,  my  dar- 
ling !  what  have  I  done,  or  what  has  come  over  you  1 " 
She  almost  shrieked  these  queries. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  you  fair-faced  monster. 
You  tried  to  murder  me  last  night,  when  I  was  asleep. 
There  's  your  mark  on  my  shoulder.  A  loving  signature, 
is  it  not  1 " 

I  bared  my  shoulder  as  I  spoke,  and  exposed  the  wound. 
She  gazed  wildly  in  my  face  for  a  moment,  then  tottered 
and  fell.  I  lifted  her  up  and  placed  her  on  the  bed.  She 
did  not  faint,  and  had  strength  enough  left  to  ask  me  to 
leave  her  alone  for  a  few  moments.  I  quitted  her  with  a 
glance  of  contempt,  and  went  down  stairs  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  our  journey.  After  an  absence  of  about  an  hour 
I  returned  to  our  apartments.  I  found  her  sitting  placidly 
in  an  easy-chair,  looking  out  of  the  window.  She  scarcely 
noticed  my  entrance,  and  the  same  old,  distant  look  was 
on  her  face. 

"  We  start  at  three  o'clock.  Are  you  ready  *?  "  I  said 
to  her. 

"Yes.  I  need  no  preparation."  Evenly,  calmly  ut- 
tered, without  even  turning  her  head  to  look  at  me. 

"You  have  recovered  your  memory,  it  seems,"  I  said. 
"You  wasted  your  histrionic  talents  this  morning." 

"Did  I  ]"  She  smiled  with  the  most  perfect  serenity, 
arranged  herself  more  easily  in  her  chair,  and  leaned 
back  as  if  in  a  revery.  I  was  enraged  beyond  endurance, 
and  left  the  room  abruptly. 


276  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

That  evening  saw  us  on  our  way  home.  Throughout 
the  journey  she  maintained  the  same  apathetic  air.  We 
scarcely  exchanged  a  word.  The  instant  we  reached  our 
house  I  assigned  apartments  to  her,  strictly  forbidding 
her  to  move  from  them,  and  despatched  a  messenger  for 
Doctor  Melony.  Minnie,  on  her  part,  took  possession  of 
her  prison  without  a  word.  She  did  not  even  ask  to  see 
our  darling  little  Pearl,  who  was  a  thousand  times  more 
beautiful  and  engaging  than  ever. 

felony  arrived,  and  I  laid  the  awful  facts  before  him. 
The  poor  man  was  terribly  shocked. 

"Depend  on  it,  it's  opium,"  he  said.  "Let  me  see 
her." 

An  hour  afterward  he  came  to  me. 

"  It 's  not  opium,  and  it 's  not  insanity,"  he  said;  "it 
must  be  somnambulism.  I  find  symptoms,  however,  that 
puzzle  me  beyond  all  calculation.  That  she  is  not  in  her 
normal  condition  of  mind  is  evident ;  but  I  cannot  dis- 
cover the  cause  of  this  unnatural  excitement.  She  is 
coherent,  logical,  but  perfectly  apathetic  to  all  outward 
influences.  At  first  I  was  certain  that  she  was  a  victim 
of  opium.  Now  I  feel  convinced  that  I  was  entirely 
wrong.  It  must  be  somnambulism.  I  will  reside  for  a 
time  in  the  house,  and  trust  me  to  discover  this  mystery. 
Meanwhile  she  must  be  carefully  watched." 

Melony  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  watched  her  inces- 
santly, and  reported  to  me  her  condition.  The  poor  man 
was  dreadfully  puzzled.  The  strictest  surveillance  failed 
to  elicit  the  slightest  evidence  of  her  taking  any  stimu- 
lants, although  she  remained  almost  all  the  time  in  the  apa- 
thetic state  which  was  so  terrible  to  behold.  The  Doctor 
endeavored  to  arouse  her  by  reproaches  for  her  attempt 
on  my  life.  She,  in  return,  only  smiled,  and  replied  that 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  277 

it  was  a  matter  in  which  she  had  no  further  interest. 
Not  a  trace  of  any  somnambulistic  habit  could  be  discov- 
ered. I  was  thoroughly  wretched.  I  secluded  myself 
from  all  society  but  that  of  Melony ;  and  had  it  not  been 
for  him  and  my  darling  little  Pearl  I  am  certain  that  I 
should  have  gone  mad.  The  most  of  my  days  I  spent 
wandering  in  the  great  woods  which  lay  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  my  farm,  and  my  evenings  I  endeavored  to  divert 
with  reading  or  a  chat  with  the  good  Doctor.  Yet,  talk  of 
what  we  might,  the  conversation  would  always  return  to 
the  same  melancholy  topic.  It  was  a  maze  of  sorrow  in 
which  we  invariably,  no  matter  in  what  direction  we  wan- 
dered, brought  up  at  the  same  spot. 


IV. 

Doctor  and  myself  were  sitting  one  evening,  late,  in 
my  library,  talking  gloomily  enough  over  my  domestic  tra- 
gedy. He  was  endeavoring  to  persuade  me  to  look  more 
brightly  on  the  future  ;  to  dismiss  as  far  as  possible  from 
my  mind  the  accursed  horror  that  dwelt  in  my  home,  and 
to  remember  that  I  had  still  a  dear  object  left  on  which 
to  centre  my  affections.  This  allusion  to  little  Pearl,  in 
such  a  mood  as.  I  was  then  in,  only  served  to  heighten 
my  agony.  I  began  immediately  to  revolve  the  chances 
that,  were  my  wife's  disease  really  insanity,  it  would  be 
perpetuated  in  my  dear  child.  Melony,  of  course,  pooh- 
poohed  the  idea ;  but  with  the  obstinacy  of  grief  I  clung 
to  it.  Suddenly  a  pause  took  place  in  the  argument, 
and  the  dreary  sounds  that  fill  the  air  in  the  last  nights 
of  autumn  swept  around  the  house.  The  wind  soughed 
through  the  tree-tops,  which  were  now  almost  bare,  as 


278  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

if  moaning  at  being  deprived  of  its  leafy  playmates.  In- 
explicable noises  passed  to  and  fro  without  the  windows. 
Dead  leaves  rustled  along  the  piazza,  like  the  rustle  of 
the  garments  of  ghosts.  Chilly  draughts  came  from  un- 
seen crevices,  blowing  on  back  and  cheek  till  one  felt  as 
if  some  invisible  lips  were  close  behind,  pouring  malig- 
nant breaths  on  face  and  shoulder.  Suddenly  the  pause 
in  our  conversation  was  filled  by  a  noise  that  we  knew 
came  neither  from  air  nor  dry  leaf.  We  heard  sound- 
ing through  the  night  the  muffled  tread  of  footsteps.  I 
knew  that,  except  ourselves,  the  household  had  long  since 
retired  to  bed.  By  a  simultaneous  action  we  both  sprang 
to  our  feet  and  rushed  to  a  door  which  opened  into  a  long 
corridor  leading  to  the  nursery,  and  which  communicated, 
by  a  series  of  rambling  passages,  with  the  main  body  of 
the  house.  As  we  flung  back  the  door  a  light  appeared 
at  the  further  end  advancing  slowly  toward  us.  It  was 
borne  by  a  tall,  white  figure.  It  was  my  wife  !  Calm 
and  stately,  and  with  her  wonderful  serene  step,  she 
approached.  My  heart  was  frozen  when  I  saw  spots  of 
blood  on  her  hands  and  night-robe.  I  gave  a  wild  cry, 
and  rushed  past  her.  In  another  instant  I  was  in  baby's 
room.  The  night  light  was  burning  dimly ;  the  col- 
ored nurse  was  sleeping  calmly  in  her  bed ;  while,  in  a 
little  cot  in  another  part  of  the  room,  I  saw—  Ah  !  how 
tell  it  1  —  I  cannot !  Well,  little  Pearl  was  murdered,  — 
murdered  !  My  darling  lay  — 

It  was  I  now  who  was  insane.  I  rushed  back  into 
the  corridor  to  slay  the  fiend  who  had  done  this  hor- 
rible deed.  I  had  no  mercy  for  her  then.  I  would 
have  killed  her  a  thousand  times  over.  Great  Heaven ! 
She  was  leaning  against  the  wall  conversing  as  calmly 
with  the  Doctor  as  if  nothing  had  happened ;  smoothing 


MOTHER  OF  PEARL.  279 

her  hair  with  her  reddened  fingers,  nonchalant  as  if  at 
an  evening  party.  I  ran  at  her*  to  crush  her.  Melony 
leaped  between  us. 

"Stop,"  he  cried.  -  "The  secret  is  out";  —  and  as  he 
spoke  he  held  up  a  little  silver  box  containing  what  seemed 
to  be  a  greenish  paste.  "It  is  hasheesh,  and  she  is  con- 
fessing ! " 

Her  statement  was  the  most  awful  thing  I  ever  listened 
to.  It  was  as  deliberate  as  a  lawyer's  brief.  She  had 
contracted  this  habit  in  the  East,  she  said,  long  before  I 
knew  her,  and  could  not  break  it  off.  It  wound  her  na- 
ture in  chains  of  steel ;  by  degrees  it  grew  upon  her,  until 
it  became  her  very  life.  Her  existence  lay  as  it  were  in 
a  nut-shell,  but  that  shell  was  to  her  a  universe.  One 
night,  she  continued,  when  she  was  under  the  influence 
of  the  drug,  she  went  with  me  to  see  a  play  in  which 
the  wife  abhors  her  husband  and  murders  her  children. 

It  was   "Medea."      From  that  instant   murder   became 

# 

glorified  in  her  sight,  through  the  medium  of  the  spell- 
working  drug.  Her  soul  became  rapt  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  spilling  of  blood.  I  was  to  have  been  her 
first  victim,  Pearl  her  second.  She  ended  by  saying, 
with  an  ineffable  smile,  that  the  delight  of  the  taking 
away  of  life  was  beyond  imagination. 

I  suppose  I  must  have  fainted,  for  when  I  awoke  from 
what  seemed  oblivion  I  found  myself  in  bed,  with  Dr.  Me- 
lony by  my  side.  He  laid  his  finger  on  his  lip,  and  whis- 
pered to  me  that  I  had  been  very  ill,  and  must  not  talk. 
But  I  could  not  restrain  myself. 

"  Where  is  she  1 "  I  muttered. 

"  Where  she  ought  to  be,"  he  answered ;  and  then  I 
caught  faintly  the  words,  "  Private  madhouse." 


280  MOTHER  OF  PEARL. 

0  hasheesh !  demon  of  a  new  paradise,  spiritual  whirl- 
wind, I  know  you  now !  You  blackened  my  life,  you 
robbed  me  of  all  I  held  dear ;  but  you  have  since  consoled 
me.  You  thought,  wicked  enchanter,  that  you  had  de- 
stroyed my  peace  forever.  But  I  have  won,  through  you 
yourself,  the  bliss  you  once  blotted  out.  Vanish  past ! 
Hence  present !  Out  upon  actuality  !  Hand  in  hand,  I 
walk  with  the  conqueror  of  time,  and  space,  and  suffering. 
Bend,  all  who  hear  me,  to  his  worship  ! 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  281 


THE  BOHEMIAN. 


I  WAS  launched  into  the  world  when  I  reached  twenty- 
one,  at  which  epoch  I  found  myself  in  possession  of  health, 
strength,  physical  beauty,  and  boundless  ambition.  I 
was  poor.  My  father  had  been  an  unsuccessful  operator 
in  Wall  Street ;  —  had  passed  through  the  various  vicissi- 
tudes of  fortune  common  to  his  profession,  and  ended  by 
being  left  a  widower,  with  barely  enough  to  live  upon  and 
to  give  me  a  collegiate  education.  As  I  was  aware  of 
the  strenuous  exertions  he  had  made  to  accomplish  this 
last,  how  he  had  pinched  himself  in  a  thousand  ways 
to  endow  me  with  intellectual  capital,  I  immediately  felt, 
on  leaving  college,  the  necessity  of  burdening  him  no 
longer.  The  desire  for  riches  entirely  possessed  me.  I 
had  no  dream  but  wealth.  Like  those  poor  wretches 
so  lately  starving  on  the  Darien  Isthmus,  who  used  to 
beguile  their  hunger  with  imaginary  banquets,  I  consoled 
my  pangs  of  present  poverty  with  visions  of  boundless 
treasure. 

A  friend  of  mine,  who  was  paying-teller  in  one  of  our 
New  York  banks,  once  took  me  into  the  vaults  when  he 
was  engaged  in  depositing  his  specie,  and  as  I  beheld  the 
golden  coins  falling  in  yellow  streams  from  his  hands,  a 
strange  madness  seemed  to  possess  me.  I  became  from 
that  moment  a  prey  to  a  morbid  disorder,  which,  if  we 


282  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

had  a  psychological  pathology,  might  be  classed  as  the 
mania  aurabilis.  I  literally  saw  gold, — nothing  but  gold. 
Walking  in  the  country  my  eyes  involuntarily  sought 
the  ground,  as  if  hoping  to  pierce  the  sod  and  discover 
some  hidden  treasure.  Coming  home  late  at  night, 
through  the  silent  New  York  streets,  every  stray  piece  of 
mud  or  loose  fragment  of  paper  that  lay  upon  the  side- 
walk was  carefully  scanned;  for,  in  spite  of  my  better 
reason,  I  cherished  the  vague  hope  that  some  time  or 
other  I  should  light  upon  a  splendid  treasure,  which,  for 
want  of  a  better  claimant,  would  remain  mine.  It  seemed, 
in  short,  as  if  one  of  those  gold  gnomes  of  the  Hartz 
Mountains  had  taken  possession  of  me  and  ruled  me  like 
a  master.  I  dreamed  such  dreams  as  would  cast  Sinbad's 
valley  of  diamonds  into  the  shade.  The  very  sunlight 
itself  never  shone  upon  me  but  the  wish  crossed  my  brain 
that  I  could  solidify  its  splendid  beams  and  coin  them 
into  "eagles." 

I  was  by  profession  a  lawyer.  Like  the  rest  of  my  fra- 
ternity I  had  my  little  office,  a  small  room  on  the  fourth 
story  in  Nassau  Street,  with  magnificent  painted  tin  la- 
bels announcing  my  rank  and  title  all  the  way  up  the 
stairs.  Despite  the  fact  that  I  had  many  of  these  labels 
fixed  to  the  walls,  and  in  every  available  corner,  my  legal 
threshold  was  virgin.  No  client  gladdened  my  sight. 
Many  and  many  a  time  my  heart  beat  as  I  heard  heavy 
footsteps  ascending  the  stairs,  but  the  half-dawning  hope 
of  employment  was  speedily  crushed.  They  always 
stopped  on  the  floor  below,  where  a  disgusting  convey- 
ancer, with  a  large  practice,  had  put  up  his  shingle.  So 
T  passed  day  after  day  alone  with  my  Code  and  Black- 
stone,  and  my  Chitty,  writing  articles  for  the  maga- 
zines on  legal-looking  paper,  —  so  that  in  case  a  client 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  283 

entered  he  might  imagine  I  was  engaged  at  my  profes- 
sion, —  by  which  I  earned  a  scanty  and  precarious  sub- 
sistence. 

I  was,  of  course,  at  this  period  in  love.  That  a  young 
man  should  be  very  ambitious,  very  poor,  and  very  unhap- 
py, and  not  in  love,  would  be  too  glaring  a  contradiction 
of  the  usual  course  of  worldly  destinies.  I  was,  there- 
fore, entirely  and  hopelessly  in  love.  My  life  was  divided 
between  two  passions,  —  the  desire  of  becoming  wealthy, 
and  my  love  for  Annie  Deane. 

Annie  was  an  author's  daughter.  Need  I  add,  after 
this  statement,  that  she  was  as  poor  as  myself]  This 
was  the  only  point  in  my  theory  of  the  conquest  of  wealth 
on  which  I  contradicted  myself.  To  be  consistent,  I 
should  have  devoted  myself  to  some  of  those  young  ladies, 
about  whom  it  is  whispered,  before  you  are  introduced, 
that  "  she  will  have  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars." 
But  though  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  devote  my  life  to 
the  acquisition  of  wealth,  and  though  I  verily  believe  I 
might  have  parted  with  my  soul  for  the  same  end,  I  had 
yet  too  much  of  the  natural  man  in  my  composition  to 
sacrifice  my  heart. 

Annie  Deane  was,  however,  such  a  girl  as  to  make  this 
infraction  of  my  theory  of  life  less  remarkable.  She  was, 
indeed,  marvellously  beautiful.  Not  of  that  insipid  style 
of  beauty  which  one  sees  in  .Greek  statues  and  London 
annuals.  Her  nose  did  not  form  a  grand  line  with  her 
forehead.  Her  mouth  would  scarcely  have  been  claimed 
by  Cupid  as  his  bow ;  but  then,  her  upper  lip  was  so 
short,  and  the  teeth  within  so  pearly,  the  brow  was  so 
white  and  full,  and  the  throat  so  round,  slender,  and 
pliant !  and  when,  above  all  this,  a  pair  of  wondrous 
dark-gray  eyes  reigned  in  supreme  and  tender  beauty, 


284  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

I  felt  that  a  portion  of  the  wealth  of  my  life  had  already 
been  acquired,  in  gaining  the  love  of  Annie  Deane. 

Our  love  affair  ran  as  smoothly  as  if  the  old  adage 
never  existed ;  —  probably  for  the  reason  that  there  was 
no  goal  in  sight,  for  we  were  altogether  too  poor  to  dream 
of  marriage  as  yet,  and  there  did  not  seem  very  much 
probability  of  my  achieving  the  success  necessary  to  the 
fulfilment  of  our  schemes.  Annie's  constitutional  delica- 
cy, however,  was  a  source  of  some  uneasiness  to  me.  She 
evidently  possessed  a  very  highly  strung  nervous  organiza- 
tion, and  was  to  the  extremest  degree  what  might  be  termed 
impressionable.  The  slightest  change  in  the  weather  af- 
fected her  strangely.  Certain  atmospheres  appeared  to 
possess  an  influence  over  her  for  better  or  for  worse  ;  but 
it  was  in  connection  with  social  instincts,  so  to  speak,  that 
the  peculiarities  of  her  organism  were  so  strikingly  devel- 
oped. These  instincts,  for  I  cannot  call  them  anything 
else,  guided  her  altogether  in  her  choice  of  acquaintance. 
She  was  accustomed  to  declare  that,  by  merely  touching 
a  person's  hand,  she  became  conscious  of  liking  or  aver- 
sion. Upon  the  entrance  of  certain  persons  into  a  room 
where  she  was,  even  if  she  had  never  seen  them  before, 
her  frame  would  shrink  and  shiver  like  a  dying  flower,  and 
she  would  not  recover  until  they  had  left  the  apartment. 
For  these  strange  affections  she  could  not  herself  account, 
and  they  on  more  than  one  occasion  were  the  source  of 
very  bitter  annoyances  to  herself  and  her  parents. 

"Well,  things  were  in  this  state  when  one  day,  in  the 
early  part  of  June,  I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  little  office. 
The  beginning  of  a  story  which  I  was  writing  lay  upon 
the  table.  •  The  title  was  elaborately  written  at  the  top 
of  the  page,  but  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  stuck  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  second  paragraph.  In  the  first, — for  it  wa« 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  285 

an  historical  tale  after  the  most  approved  model,  —  I  had 
described  the  month,  the  time  of  day,  and  the  setting 
sun.  In  the  second,  I  introduced  my  three  horsemen, 
who  were  riding  slowly  down  a  hill.  The  nose  of  the 
first  and  elder  horseman,  however,  upset  me.  I  could 
not  for  the  life  of  me  determine  whether  it  was  to  be 
aquiline  or  Roman. 

While  I  was  debating  this  important  point,  and  swaying 
between  a  multitude  of  suggestions,  there  came  a  sharp, 
decisive  knock  at  my  door.  I  think,  if  the  knock  had 
come  upon  the  nose  about  which  I  was  thinking,  or  on 
my  own,  I  should  scarcely  have  been  more  surprised.  "  A 
client!"  I  cried  to  myself.  "Huzza  !  the  gods  have  at  last 
laid  on  a  pipe  from  Pactolus  for  ray  especial  benefit."  In 
reality,  between  ourselves,  I  did  not  say  anything  half  so 
good;  but  the  exclamation,  as  I  have  written  it,  will 
convey  some  idea  of  the  vague  exultation  that  filled  my 
soul  when  I  heard  that  knock. 

"  Come  in  !  "  I  cried,  when  I  had  reached  down  a  Chitty 
and  concealed  my  story  under  a  second-hand  brief  which 
I  had  borrowed  from  a  friend  in  the  profession.  "  Come 
in ! "  and  I  arranged  myself  in  a  studious  and  absorbed 
attitude. 

The  door  opened  and  my  visitor  entered.  I  had  a  sort 
of  instinct  that  he  was  no  client,  from  the  first  moment. 
Rich  men  —  and  who  but  a  rich  man  goes  to  law  —  may 
sometimes  be  seedy  in  their  attire,  but  it  is  always  a  pe- 
culiar and  respectable  seediness.  The  air  of  wealth  is 
visible,  I  know  not  by  what  magic,  beneath  the  most 
threadbare  coat.  You  see  at  a  glance  that  the  man  who 
wears  it  might,  if  he  chose,  be  clad  in  fine  linen.  The 
seediness  of  the  poor  man  is,  on  the  other  hand,  equally 
unmistakable.  You  seem  to  discern  instantly  that  his 


286  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

coat  is  poor  from  necessity.  My  visitor,  it  was  easy  to 
perceive,  was  of  this  latter  class.  My  hopes  of  profit  sank 
at  the  sight  of  his  pale,  unshaven  face,  his  old,  shapeless 
boots,  his  shabby  Kossuth  hat,  his  over-coat  shining  with 
long  wear,  which,  though  buttoned,  I  could  see  no  longer 
merited  its  name,  for  it  was  plain  that  no  other  coat 
lurked  beneath  it.  Withal,  this  man  had  an  air  of  con- 
scious power  as  he  entered.  You  could  see  that  he  had 
nothing  in  his  pockets,  but  then  he  looked  as  if  he  had 
much  in  his  brain. 

He  saluted  me  with  a  sort  of  careless  respect  as  he  en- 
tered. I  bowed  in  return,  and  offered  him  the  other 
chair.  I  had  but  two. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  sir  1 "  I  inquired  blandly, 
still  clinging  to  the  hope  of  clientage. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  shortly ;  "  I  never  make  purposeless 
visits." 

"  Hem  !  If  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to  state  your  case," 
—  for  his  rudeness  rather  shook  my  faith  in  his  poverty,  — 
"  I  will  give  it  my  best  attention." 

"  I  've  no  doubt  of  that,  Mr.  Cranstoun,"  he  replied, 
"for  you  are  as  much  interested  in  it  as  I  am." 

"Indeed  !  "  I  exclaimed,  not  without  some  surprise  and 
much  interest  at  this  sadden  disclosure.  "  To  whom 
have  I  the  honor  of  speaking,  then  1 " 

"  My  name  is  Philip  Brann." 

"  Brann  ?  —  Brann  1     A  resident  of  this  city  ? " 

"No.  I  am  by  birth  an  Englishman,  but  I  never 
reside  anywhere." 

"  0,  you  are  a  commercial  agent,  then,  perhaps  1 " 

"  I  am  a  Bohemian." 

"A  what  ?" 

"A  Bohemian,"  he  repeated,  coolly  removing  the  pa- 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  287 

pers  with  which  I  had  concealed  my  magazine  story,  and 
glancing  over  the  commencement.  "You  see  my  habits 
are  easy." 

"  I  see  it  perfectly,  sir,"  I  answered. 

"  When  I  say  that  I  am  a  Bohemian,  I  do  not  wish  you 
to  understand  that  I  am  a  Zingaro.  I  don't  steal  chick- 
ens, tell  fortunes,  or  live  in  a  camp.  I  am  a  social  Bohe- 
mian, and  fly  at  higher  game." 

"  But  what  has  all  this  got  to  do  with  me  1 "  I  asked, 
sharply  :  for  I  was  not  a  little  provoked  at  the  disap- 
pointment I  experienced  in  the  fellow's  not  having  turned 
out  to  be  a  client. 

"  Much.  It  is  necessary  that  you  should  know  some- 
thing about  me  before  you  do  that  which  you  will  do." 

"  0,  I  am  to  do  something,  then  ? " 

"  Certainly.  Have  you  read  Henri  Murger's  Scenes  de 
la  Vie  de  Boheme  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

• 

"  Well,  then,  you  can  comprehend  my  life.  I  am 
clever,  learned,  witty,  and  tolerably  good-looking.  I  can 
write  brilliant  magazine  articles,"  —  here  his  eye  rested 
contemptuously  on  my  historical  tale,  —  "  I  can  paint  pic- 
tures, and,  what  is  more,  sell  the  pictures  I  paint.  I  can 
compose  songs,  make  comedies,  and  captivate  women." 

"  On  my  word,  sir,  you  have  a  choice  of  professions,"  I 
said,  sarcastically  ;  for  the  scorn  with  which  the  Bohe- 
mian had  eyed  my  story  offended  me. 

"  That 's  it,"  he  answered  ;  "  I  don't  want  a  profession. 
I  could  make  plenty  of  money  if  I  chose  to  work,  but  I 
don't  choose  to  work.  I  will  never  work.  I  have  a  con- 
tempt for  labor." 

"  Probably  you  despise  money  equally,"  I  replied,  with 
a  sneer. 


288  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

"No,  I  don't.  To  acquire  money  without  trouble  is 
the  great  object  of  my  life,  as  to  acquire  it  in  any  way  or 
by  any  means  is  the  great  object  of  yours." 

"  And  pray,  sir,  how  do  you  know  that  I  have  any  such 
object  ?  "  I  asked,  in  a  haughty  tone. 

"  0,  I  know  it.  You  dream  only  of  wealth.  You  in- 
tend to  try  and  obtain  it  by  industry.  You  will  never 
succeed." 

"  Your  prophecies,  sir,  are  more  dogmatical  than  pleas- 
ant." 

"Don't  be  angry,"  he  replied,  smiling  at  my  frowns. 
"You  shall  be  wealthy.  I  can  show  you  the  road  to 
wealth.  We  will  follow  it  together !  " 

The  sublime  assurance  of  this  man  astounded  me. 
His  glance,  penetrating  and  vivid,  seemed  to  pierce  into 
my  very  heart.  A  strange  and  uncontrollable  interest  in 
him  and  his  plans  filled  my  breast.  I  burned  to  know 
more. 

"  What  is  your  proposal  V'  I  asked,  severely ;  for  a 
thought  at  the  moment  flashed  across  me  that  some  un- 
lawful scheme  might  be  the  aim  of  this  singular  being. 

"  You  need  not  be  alarmed,"  he  answered,  as  if  reading 
my  thoughts.  "  The  road  I  wish  to  lead  you  is  an  honest 
one.  I  am  too  wise  a  man  ever  to  become  a  criminal. 

"  Then,  Mr.  Philip  Brann,  if  you  will  explain  your 
plans  I  shall  feel  more  assured  on  that  point." 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,"  he  began,  crossing  his  legs 
and  taking  a  cigar  out  of  a  bundle  that  lay  in  one  of  the 
pigeon-holes  of  my  desk,  "in  the  first  place,  you  must 
introduce  me  to  the  young  lady  to  whom  you  are  en- 
gaged, Miss  Annie  Deane." 

"  Sir !  "  I  exclaimed,  starting  to  my  feet,  and  quivering 
with  indignation  at  such  a  proposal ;  "  what  do  you 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  289 

mean  1  Do  you  think  it  likely  that  I  would  introduce  to 
a  young  lady  in  whom  I  am  interested  a  man  whom  I 
never  saw  before  to-day,  and  who  has  voluntarily  con- 
fessed to  being  a  vagabond1?  Sir,  in  spite  of  your  uni- 
versal acquirements,  I  think  Providence  forgot  to  endow 
you  with  sense." 

"  I  '11  trouble  you  for  one  of  those  matches.  Thank 
you.  So  you  refuse  to  introduce  me  !  I  knew  you  would. 
But  I  also  know  that  ten  minutes  from  this  time  you  will 
be  very  glad  to  do  it.  Look  at  my  eyes !  " 

The  oddity  of  this  request,  and  the  calm  assurance  with 
which  it  was  made,  were  too  much  for  me.  In  spite  of 
my  anger,  I  burst  into  a  fit  of  loud  laughter.  He  waited 
patiently  until  my  mirth  had  subsided. 

"You  need  not  laugh,"  he  resumed;  "I  am  perfectly 
serious.  Look  at  my  eyes  attentively,  and  tell  me  if  you 
see  anything  strange  in  them." 

At  such  a  proposition  from  any  other  man,  I  should 
have  taken  for  granted  that  he  was  mocking  me,  and 
kicked  him  down  stairs.  This  Bohemian,  however,  had 
an  earnestness  of-  manner  that  staggered  me.  I  became 
serious,  and  I  did  look  at  his  eyes. 

They  were  certainly  very  singular  eyes,  —  the  most 
singular  eyes  that  I  had  ever  beheld.  They  were  long, 
gray,  and  of  a  very  deep  hue.  Their  steadiness  was  won- 
derful. They  never  moved.  One  might  fancy  that  they 
were  gazing  into  the  depths  of  one  of  those  Italian  lakes, 
on  an  evening  when  the  waters  are  so  calm  as  to  seem 
solid.  But  it  was  the  interior  of  these  organs  —  if  I  may 
so  speak  —  that  was  so  marvellous.  As  I  gazep!,  I  seemed 
to  behold  strange  things  passing  in  the  deep  gray  distance 
which  seemed  to  stretch  infinitely  away.  I  could  have 
sworn  that  I  saw  figures  moving,  and  landscapes  wonder- 

19 


290  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

fully  real.  My  gaze  seemed  to  be  fastened  to  his  by 
some  inscrutable  power;  and  the  outer  world,  gradu- 
ally passing  off  like  a  cloud,  left  me  literally  living  in 
that  phantom  region  which  I  beheld  in  those  mysterious 
eyes. 

I  was  aroused  from  this  curious  lethargy  by  the  Bohe- 
mian's voice.  It  seemed  to  me  at  first  as  if  muffled  by 
distance,  and  sounded  drowsily  in  my  ear.  I  made  a 
powerful  effort  and  recalled  my  senses,  which  seemed  to 
be  wandering  in  some  far-off  place. 

"You  are  more  easily  affected  than  I  imagined,"  re- 
marked Brann,  as  I  stared  heavily  at  him  with  a  half- 
stupefied  air. 

"  What  have  you  done  1  What  is  this  lethargy  that  I 
feel  upon  me  ? "  I  stammered  out. 

"Ah!  you  believe  now,"  replied  Brann,  coldly;  "I 
thought  you  would.  Did  you  observe  nothing  strange  in 
my  eyes  i " 

"  Yes.  I  saw  landscapes,  and  figures,  and  many  strange 
things.  I  almost  thought  I  could  distinguish  Miss  — 
Miss  —  Deane  !  " 

"  Well,  it  is  not  improbable.  People  can  behold  what- 
ever they  wish  in  my  eyes." 

"  But  will  you  not  explain  1  I  no  longer  doubt  the 
fact  that  you  are  possessed  of  extraordinary  powers,  but  I 
must  know  more  of  you.  Why  do  you  wish  to  be  intro- 
duced to  Miss  Deane  1 " 

"Listen  to  me,  Cranstoun,"  answered  the  Bohemian, 
placing  his  hand  on  my  shoulder ;  "  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
enter  into  any  blindfold  compact.  I  will  explain  all  my 
views  to  you  ;  for,  though  I  have  learned  to  trust  no  man, 
I  know  you  cannot  avail  yourself  of  any  information  I 
may  give  you  without  my  assistance." 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  291 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  I ;  "  for  then  you  will  not 
suspect  me." 

"  As  you  have  seen,"  continued  the  Bohemian,  "  I  pos- 
sess some  remarkable  powers.  The  origin,  the  causes  of 
these  endowments,  I  do  not  care  to  investigate.  The  sci- 
entific men  of  France  and  Germany  have  wearied  them- 
selves in  reducing  the  psychological  phenomena  of  which 
I  am  a  practical  illustration  to  a  system.  They  have 
failed.  An  arbitrary  nomenclature,  and  a  few  interesting 
and  suggestive  experiments  made  by  Reichenbach,  are  all 
the  results  of  years  of  the  intellectual  toil  of  our  greatest 
minds.  As  you  will  have  guessed  by  this  time,  I  am 
what  is  vulgarly  called  '  a  mesmerist.'  I  can  throw  peo- 
ple into  trances,  deaden  the  nervous  susceptibilities,  and 
do  a  thousand  things  by  which,  if  I  chose  to  turn  exhib- 
itor, I  could  realize  a  fortune.  But,  while  possessing  those 
qualities  which  exhibit  merely  a  commonplace  superiority 
of  psychical  force,  and  which  are  generally  to  be  found  in 
men  of  a  highly  sympathetic  organization,  I  yet  can  boast 
of  unique  powers  such  as  I  have  never  known  to  be 
granted  to  another  being  besides  myself.  What  these 
powers  are  I  have  now  no  need  to  inform  you.  You  will 
very  soon  behold  them  practically  illustrated. 

"  Now,  to  come  to  my  object.  Like  you,  I  am  ambi- 
tious ;  but  I  have,  unlike  you,  a  constitutional  objection 
to  labor.  It  is  sacrilege  to  expect  men  with  minds  like 
yours  and  mine  to  work.  Why  should  we,  —  who  are 
expressly  and  evidently  created  by  nature  to  enjoy, — 
why  should  we,  with  our  delicate  tastes,  our  refined  sus- 
ceptibilities, our  highly  wrought  organizations,  spend  our 
lives  in  ministering  to  the  enjoyment  of  others  1  In  short, 
my  friend,  I  do  not  wish  to  row  the  boat  in  the  great 
voyage  of  life.  I  prefer  sitting  at  the  stern,  with  purple 


292  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

'awnings  and  ivory  couches  around  me,  and  my  hand  upon 
the  golden  helm.  I  wish  to  achieve  fortune  at  a  single 
stroke.  With  your  assistance  I  can  do  it.  You  will 
join  me  !  " 

"  Under  certain  conditions." 

I  was  not  yet  entirely  carried  away  by  the  earnest  elo- 
quence of  this  strange  being. 

"  I  will  grant  what  conditions  you  like,"  he  continued, 
fervently.  "Above  all,  I  will  set  your  mind  at  rest  by 
swearing  to  you,  whatever  may  be  my  power,  never  in 
any  way  to  interfere  between  you  and  the  young  girl 
whom  you  love.  I  will  respect  her  as  I  would  a  sister." 

This  last  promise  cleared  away  many  of  my  doubts. 
The  history  which  this  man  gave  of  himself,  and  the 
calm  manner  with  which  he  asserted  his  wondrous  power 
over  women,  I  confess,  rendered  me  somewhat  cautious 
about  introducing  him  to  Annie.  His  air  was,  however, 
now  so  frank  and  manly,  he  seemed  to  be  so  entirely  ab- 
sorbed by  his  one  idea  of  wealth,  that  I  had  no  hesita- 
tion in  declaring  to  him  that  I  accepted  his  strange 
proposals. 

"  Good  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are,  I  see,  a  man  of 
resolution.  We  shall  succeed.  I  will  now  let  you  into  my 
plans.  Your  fiancee,  Miss  Annie  Deane,  is  a  clairvoyance 
of  the  first  water.  I  saw  her  the  other  day  at  the  Acad- 
emy of  Design.  I  stood  near  her  as  she  examined  a  pic- 
ture, and  my  physiognomical  and  psychological  knowledge 
enabled  me  to  ascertain  beyond  a  doubt  that  her  organiza- 
tion was  the  most  nervous  and  sympathetic  I  had  ever 
met.  It  is  to  her  pure  and  piercing  instincts  that  we 
shall  owe  our  success." 

Without  regarding  my  gestures  of  astonishment  and 
alarm,  he  continued  :  — 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  293 

"  You  must  know  that  this  so-called  science  of  mesmer- 
ism is  in  its  infancy.  Its  professors  are,  for  the  most 
part,  incapables ;  its  pupils,  credulous  fools.  As  a  proof 
of  this,  endeavor  to  recall,  if  you  can,  any  authentic  in- 
stance in  which  this  science  has  been  put  to  any  practical 
use.  Have  these  mesmeric  professors  and  their  instru- 
ments ever  been  able  to  predict  or  foresee  the  rise  of 
stocks,  the  course  of  political  events,  the  approaches  of 
disaster  ?  Never,  my  friend,  save  in  the  novels  of  Alexan- 
dre  Dumas  and  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton.  The  reason 
of  this  is  very  simple.  The  professors  were  limited  in 
their  power,  and  the  somnambules  limited  in  their  suscep- 
tibilities. When  two  such  people  as  Miss  Deane  and  my- 
self labor  together,  everything  is  possible  ! " 

"  0,  I  see  !  You  propose  to  operate  in  the  stocks.  My 
dear  sir,  you  are  mad.  Where  is  the  money  1 " 

"  Bah !  who  said  anything  about  operating  in  stocks  1 
That  involves  labor  and  an  office.  I  can  afford  neither. 
No,  Cranstoun,  we  will  take  a  shorter  road  to  wealth  than 
that.  A  few  hours'  exertion  is  all  we  need  to  make  us 
millionnaires" 

"  For  heaven's  sake  explain  !  I  am  wearied  with  cu- 
riosity deferred." 

"  It  is  thus.  This  island  and  its  vicinity  abound  in 
concealed  treasure.  Much  was  deposited  by  the  early 
Dutch  settlers  during  their  wars  with  the  Indians.  Cap- 
tain Kidd  and  other  buccaneers  have  made  numberless 
caches  containing  their  splendid  spoils,  which  a  violent 
death  prevented  their  ever  reclaiming.  Poor  Poe,  you 
know,  who  was  a  Bohemian,  like  myself,  made  a  story  on 
the  tradition,  but,  poor  fellow  !  he  only  dug  up  his  treas- 
ure on  paper.  There  was  also  a  considerable  quantity  of 
plate,  jewels,  and  coin  concealed  by  the  inhabitants  of  New 


294  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

York  and  the  neighborhood  during  the  war  with  England. 
You  may  wonder  at  my  asserting  this  so  confidently.  Let 
it  suffice  for  you  that  I  know  it  to  be  so.  It  is  my  inten- 
tion to  discover  some  of  this  treasure." 

Having  calmly  made  this  announcement,  he  folded  his 
arms  and  gazed  at  me  with  the  air  of  a  god  prepared  to 
receive  the  ovations  of  his  worshippers. 

"How  is  this  to  be  accomplished?"  I  inquired,  ear- 
nestly, for  I  had  begun  to  put  implicit  faith  in  this  man, 
who  seemed  equally  gifted  and  audacious. 

"  There  are  two  ways  by  which  we  can  arrive  at  our 
desires.  The  first  is  by  the  command  of  that  power  com- 
mon to  somnambules,  who,  having  their  faculties  concen- 
trated on  a  certain  object  during  the  magnetic  trance, 
become  possessed  of  the  power  of  inwardly  beholding  and 
verbally  describing  it,  as  well  as  the  locality  where  it  is 
situated.  The  other  is  peculiar  to  myself,  and,  as  you 
have  seen,  consists  in  rendering  my  eyes  a  species  of 
camera-obscura  to  the  clairvoyante,  in  which  she  vividly 
perceives  all  that  we  would  desire.  This  mode  I  have 
greater  faith  in  than  in  any  other,  and  I  believe  that  our 
success  will  be  found  there." 

"  How  is  it,"  I  inquired,  "  that  you  have  not  before- 
put  this  wondrous  power  to  a  like  use  1  Why  did  you 
not  enrich  yourself  long  since  through  this  means  ? " 

"  Because  I  have  never  been  able  to  find  a  somnambule 
sufficiently  impressionable  to  be  reliable  in  her  evidence. 
I  have  tried  many,  but  they  have  all  deceived  me.  You 
confess  to  having  beheld  certain  shadowy  forms  in  my 
eyes,  but  you  could  not  define  them  distinctly.  The 
reason  is  simply  that  your  magnetic  organization  is  not 
perfect.  This  faculty  of  mine,  which  has  so  much  aston- 
ished you,  is  nothing  new.  It  is  employed  by  the  Egyp- 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  295 

tians,  who  use  a  small  glass  mirror  where  I  use  my  eyes. 
The  testimony  of  M.  Leon  Laborde,  who  practised  the 
art  himself,  Lord  Prudhoe,  and  a  host  of  other  witnesses, 
have  recorded  their  experience  of  the  truth  of  the  science 
which  I  preach.  However,  I  need  discourse  no  further 
on  it.  I  will  prove  to  you  its  verity.  Now  that  you 
have  questioned  me  sufficiently,  will  you  introduce  me  to 
your  lady-love,  Mr.  Henry  Cranstoun  $  " 

"  And  will  you  promise  me,  Mr.  Philip  Brann,  on  your 
honor  as  a  man,  that  you  will  respect  my  relations  with 
that  lady  1" 

"  I  promise,  upon  my  honor." 

"  Then  I  yield.     When  shall  it  be  ? " 

"  To-night.     I  hate  delays." 

"This  evening,  then,  I  will  meet  you  at  the  Astor 
House,  and  we  will  go  together  to  Mr.  Deane's  house." 

That  night,  accompanied  by  my  new  friend,  the  Bohe- 
mian, I  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.  Deane's  house,  in 
Amity  Place.  A  modest  neighborhood,  fit  for  a  man  who 
earned  his  living  by  writing  novels  for  cheap  publishers, 
and  correspondence  for  Sunday  newspapers.  Annie  was, 
as  usual,  in  the  sitting-room  on  the  first  floor,  and  the 
lamps  had  not  yet  been  lighted,  so  that  the  apartment 
seemed  filled  with  a  dull  gloom  as  we  entered. 

"  Annie  dear,"  said  I,  as  she  ran  to  meet  me,  "  let  me 
present  to  you  my  particular  friend,  Mr.  Philip  Brann, 
whom  I  have  brought  with  me  for  a  special  purpose, 
which  I  will  presently  explain." 

She  did  not  reply. 

Piqued  by  this  strange  silence,  and  feeling  distressed 
about  the  Bohemian,  who  stood  calmly  upright,  with  a 
faint  smile  on  his  lips,  I  repeated  my  introduction  rather 
sharply. 


296  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

"  Annie,"  I  reiterated,  "  you  could  not  have  heard  me. 
I  am  anxious  to  introduce  to  you  my  friend,  Mr.  Brann." 

"  I  heard  you,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice,  catching 
at  my  coat  as  if  to  support  herself,  "  but  I  feel  very  ill." 

"  Good  heavens  !  what 's  the  matter,  darling  1  Let  me 
get  you  a  glass  of  wine,  or  water." 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  said  the  Bohemian,  arresting  my 
meditated  rush  to  the  door,  "  I  understand  Miss  Deane's 
indisposition  thoroughly.  If  she  will  permit  me,  I  will 
relieve  her  at  once." 

A  low  murmur  of  assent  seemed  to  break  involuntarily 
from  Annie's  lips.  The  Bohemian  led  her  calmly  to  an 
arm-chair  near  the  window,  held  her  hands  in  his  for  a 
few  moments,  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  her  in  a  low 
tone.  In  less  than  a  minute  she  declared  herself  quite 
recovered. 

"  It  was  you  who  caused  my  illness,"  she  said  to  him, 
in  a  tone  whose  vivacity  contrasted  strangely  with  her 
previous  languor.  "  I  felt  your  presence  in  the  room  like 
a  terrible  electrical  shock." 

"  And  I  have  cured  what  I  caused,"  answered  the  Bo- 
hemian ;  "  yoil  are  very  sensitive  to  magnetic  impressions. 
So  much  the  better." 

"Why  so  much  the  better? "  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  Mr.  Cranstouu  will  explain,"  replied  Brann,  carelessly  ; 
and,  with  a  slight  bow,  he  moved  to  another  part  of  the 
dusky  room,  leaving  Annie  and  myself  together. 

"  Who  is  this  Mr.  Brann,  Henry  1 "  asked  Annie,  as  soon 
as  the  Bohemian  was  out  of  ear-shot.  "  His  presence 
affects  me  strangely." 

"He  is  a  strange  person,  who  possesses  wonderful 
powers,"  I  answered ;  "  he  is  going  to  be  of  great  ser- 
vice to  us,  Annie." 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  297 

"  Indeed  !  how  so  ? " 

I  then  related  to  her  what  had  passed  between  the  Bo- 
hemian and  myself  at  my  office,  and  explained  his  object 
in  coming  hither  on  this  evening.  I  painted  in  glowing 
colors  the  magnificent  future  that  opened  for  her  and 
myself,  if  his  scheme  should  prove  successful,  and  ended 
by  entreating  her,  for  my  sake,  to  afford  the  Bohemian 
every  facility  for  arriving  at  the  goal  of  his  desires. 

As  I  finished,  I  discovered  that  Annie  was  trembling 
violently.  I  caught  her  hand  in  mine.  It  was  icy  cold, 
and  quivered  with  a  sort  of  agitated  and  intermittent 
tremor. 

"0  Henry!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  feel  a  singular  pre- 
sentiment that  seems  to  warn  me  against  this  thing. 
Let  us  rest  content  in  our  poverty.  Have  a  true  heart, 
and  learn  to  labor  and  to  wait.  You  will  be  rich  in 
time;  and  then  we  will  live  happily  together,  secure 
in  the  consciousness  that  our  means  have  been  ac- 
quired by  honest  industry.  I  fear  those  secret  treasure- 
seekings." 

"What  nonsense!"  I  cried;  "these  are  a  timid  girl's 
fears.  It  would  be  folly  to  pine  patiently  for  years  in 
poverty,  when  we  can  achieve  wealth  at  a  stroke.  The 
sooner  we  are  rich,  the  sooner  we  shall  be  united,  and  to 
postpone  that  moment  would  be  to  make  me  almost  doubt 
your  love.  Let  us  try  this  man's  power.  There  will  be 
nothing  lost  if  he  fails." 

"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  Henry,"  she  answered,  "  I 
will  obey  you  in  all  things ;  only  I  cannot  help  feeling  a 
vague  terror  that  seems  to  forebode  misfortune." 

I  laughed  and  bade  her  be  of  good  cheer,  and  rang  for 
lights  in  order  that  the  experiment  might  be  commenced 
at  once.  We  three  were  alone.  Mrs.  Deane  was  on  a 


298  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

visit  at  Philadelphia;  Mr.  Deane  was  occupied  with  his 
literary  labors  in  another  room,  so  that  we  had  everything 
necessary  to  insure  the  quiet  which  the  Bohemian  insisted 
should  reign  during  his  experiments. 

The  Bohemian  did  not  magnetize  in  the  common  way, 
with  passes  and  manipulations.  He  sat  a  little  in  the 
shade,  with  his  back  to  the  strong  glare  of  the  chande- 
liers, while  Annie  sat  opposite  to  him,  looking  full  in  his 
face.  I  sat  at  a  little  distance,  at  a  small  table,  with  a 
pencil  and  note-book,  with  which  I  was  preparing  to  regis- 
ter such  revelations  as  our  dairvoyante  should  make. 

The  Bohemian  commenced  operations  by  engaging  Miss 
Deane  in  a  light  and  desultory  conversation.  He  seemed 
conversant  with  all  the  topics  of  the  town,  and  talked  of 
the  opera,  and  the  annual  exhibition  at  the  Academy 
of  Design,  as  glibly  as  if  he  had  never  done  anything 
but  cultivate  small  talk.  Imperceptibly  but  rapidly, 
however,  he  gradually  led  the  conversation  to  money 
matters.  From  these  he  glided  into  a  dissertation  on 
the  advantages  of  wealth,  touched  on  the  topic  of  cele- 
brated misers,  thence  slid  smoothly  into  a  discourse  on 
concealed  treasures,  about  which  he  spoke  in  so  eloquent 
and  impressive  a  manner  as  to  completely  fascinate  both 
his  hearers. 

Then  it  was  that  I  observed  a  singular  change  take 
place  in  Annie  Deane's  countenance.  Hitherto  pale  and 
somewhat  listless,  as  if  suffering  from  mental  depression, 
she  suddenly  became  illumined  as  if  by  an  inward  fire. 
A  rosy  flush  mounted  to  her  white  cheeks ;  her  lips,  eagerly 
parted  as  if  drinking  in  some  intoxicating  atmosphere, 
were  ruddy  with  a  supernatural  health,  and  her  eyes 
dilated  as  they  gazed  upon  the  Bohemian  with  a  piercing 
intensity. 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  299 

The  latter  ceased  to  speak,  and  after  a  moment's  silence 
he  said,  gently,  "  Miss  Deane,  do  you  see  1 " 

"  I  see  !  "  she  murmured,  without  altering  the  fixity  of 
her  gaze  for  an  instant. 

"  Mark  well  what  you  observe,"  continued  the  Bohe- 
mian ;  "  describe  it  with  all  possible  accuracy."  Then, 
turning  to  me,  he  said  rapidly,  "Take  care  and  note 
everything." 

"  I  see,"  pursued  Annie,  speaking  in  a  measured  mono- 
tone and  gazing  into  the  Bohemian's  eyes  while  she 
waved  her  hand  gently  as  if  keeping  time  to  the  rhythm 
of  her  words,  —  "I  see  a  sad  and  mournful  island  on 
which  the  ocean  beats  forever.  The  sandy  ridges  are 
crowned  with  manes  of  bitter  grass  that  wave  and  wave 
sorrowfully  in  the  wind.  No  trees  or  shrubs  are  rooted 
in  .that  salt  and  sterile  soil.  The  burning  breath  of 
the  Atlantic  has  seared  the  surface  and  made  it  al- 
ways barren.  The  surf,  that  whitens  on  the  shore, 
drifts  like  a  shower  of  snow  across  its  bleak  and  storm- 
blown  plains.  It  is  the  home  of  the  sea-gull  and  the 
crane." 

"It  is  called  Coney  Island  ? "  the  Bohemian  half  in- 
quired, half  asserted. 

"  It  is  the  name,"  pursued  the  seeress,  but  in  so  even 
a  tone  that  one  would  scarce  imagine  she  had  heard  the 
question.  She  then  continued  to  speak  as  before,  still 
keeping  up  that  gentle  oscillation  of  her  hand,  which,  in 
spite  of  my  reason,  seemed  to  me  to  have  something  terri- 
ble in  its  monotony. 

"  I  see  the  spot,"  she  continued,  "  where  what  you  lone 
lies  buried.  My  gaze  pierces  through  the  shifting  soil 
until  it  finds  the  gold  that  burns  in  the  gloom.  And 
there  are  jewels,  too,  of  regal  size  and  priceless  value, 


300  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

hidden  so  deeply  in  the  barren  sand !  No  sunlight  has 
reached  them  for  many  years,  but  they  burn  for  me  as  if 
they  were  set  in  the  glory  of  an  eternal  day !  " 

"  Describe  the  spot  accurately  !  "  cried  the  Bohemian, 
in  a  commanding  tone,  making  for  the  first  time  a  su- 
premely imperative  gesture. 

"There  is  a  spot  upon  that  lonely  island,"  the  seeress 
continued,  in  the  unimpassioned  monotone  that  seemed 
more  awful  than  the  thunder  of  an  army,  "  where  three 
huge,  sandy  ridges  meet.  At  the  junction  of  these  three 
ridges  a  stake  of  locust-wood  is  driven  deeply  down. 
When  by  the  sun  it  is  six  o'clock,  a  shadow  falls  west- 
ward on  the  sand.  Where  this  shadow  ends,  the  treasure 
lies." 

"  Can  you  draw  ?  "  asked  the  Bohemian. 

"  She  cannot,"  I  answered  hastily.  The  Bohemian 
raised  his  hand  to  enjoin  silence. 

" I  can  draw  now"  the  seeress  replied  firmly,  never  for 
an  instant  removing  her  eyes  from  the  Bohemian's. 

"  Will  you  draw  the  locality  you  describe,  if  I  give  you 
the  materials  ? "  pursued  the  magnetizer. 

"I  will." 

Brann  drew  a  sheet  of  Bristol-board  and  a  pencil  from 
his  pocket,  and  presented  them  to  her  in  silence.  She 
took  them,  and,  still  keeping  her  eyes  immovably  fixed  on 
those  of  the  magnetizer,  began  sketching  rapidly.  I  was 
thunderstruck.  Annie,  I  knew,  had  never  made  even  the 
rudest  sketch  before. 

"It  is  done  ! "  she  said,  after  a  few  minutes'  silence, 
handing  the  Bristol-board  back  to  the  Bohemian.  Moved 
by  an  inexpressible  curiosity,  I  rose  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder.  It  was  wonderful !  There  was  a  masterly 
sketch  of  such  a  locality  as  she  described  executed  on  the 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  301 

paper.  But  its  vividness,  its  desolation,  its  evident  truth, 
were  so  singularly  given  that  I  could  scarcely  believe  my 
senses.  I  could  almost  hear  the  storms  of  the  Atlantic 
howling  over  the  barren  sands. 

"  There  is  something  wanting  yet,"  said  the  Bohemian, 
handing  the  sketch  back  to  her,  and  smiling  at  my  amaze- 
ment. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  remarked,  calmly.  Then,  giving  a 
few  rapid  strokes  with  her  pencil,  she  handed  it  to  him 
once  more. 

The  points  of  the  compass  Jtad  been  added  in  the  upper 
right-lia.nd  corner  of  the  drawing.  Nothing  more  was 
needed  to  establish  the  perfect  accuracy  of  the  sketch. 

"  This  is  truly  wonderful ! "  I  could  not  help  exclaim- 
ing. 

"It  is  finished,"  cried  the  Bohemian,  exultingly,  and 
dashing  his  handkerchief  two  or  three  times  across  Annie's 
face.  Under  this  new  influence  her  countenance  under- 
went a  rapid  change.  Her  eyes,  a  moment  before  dilated 
to  their  utmost  capabilities,  now  suddenly  became  dull, 
and  the  eyelids  drooped  heavily  over  them.  Her  form, 
that  during  the  previous  scene  had  been  rigidly  erect  and 
strung  to  its  highest  point  of  tension,  seemed  to  collapse 
like  one  of  those  strips  of  gold-leaf  that  electricians  ex- 
periment with,  when  the  subtle  fluid  has  ceased  to  course 
through  its  pores.  Without  uttering  a  word,  and  before 
the  Bohemian  or  myself  could  stir,  she  sank  like  a  corpse 
on  the  floor. 

"  Wretch ! "  I  cried,  rushing  forward,  "  what  have  you 
done?" 

"  Secured  the  object  of  our  joint  ambition,"  replied  the 
fellow,  with  that  imperturbable  calmness  that  so  dis- 
tinguished him.  "  Do  not  be  alarmed  at  this  fainting- 


302  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

fit,  my  friend.  Exhaustion  is  always  the  consequence  of 
such  violent  psychological  phenomena.  Miss  Deane  will 
be  perfectly  recovered  by  to-morrow  evening,  and  by  that 
time  we  shall  have  returned,  millionnaires." 

"  I  will  not  leave  her  until  she  is  recovered,"  I  an- 
swered sullenly,  while  1  tried  to  restore  the  dear  girl  to 
consciousness. 

"Yes,  but  you  will,"  asserted  Brann,  lighting  his  cigar 
as  coolly  as  if  nothing  very  particular  had  happened. 
"  By  dawn  to-morrow,  you  and  I  will  have  embarked  for 
Coney  Island." 

"  You  cold-blooded  savage !  "  I  cried  passionately,  "  will 
you  assist  me  to  restore  your  victim  to  consciousness? 
If  you  do  not,  by  heaven,  I  will  blow  your  brains  out ! " 

"  What  with  1  The  fire-shovel  ? "  he  answered  with  a 
laugh.  Then,  carelessly  approaching,  he  took  Annie's 
hands  in  his,  and  blew  with  his  mouth  gently  upon  her 
forehead.  The  effect  was  almost  instantaneous.  Her 
eyes  gradually  unclosed,  and  she  made  a  feeble  effort  to 
sustain  herself. 

"Call  the  housekeeper,"  said  the  Bohemian,  "have 
Miss  Deane  conducted  to  bed,  and  by  to-morrow  evening 
all  will  be  tranquil." 

I  obeyed  his  directions  almost  mechanically,  little  dream- 
ing how  bitterly  his  words  would  be  realized.  Yes,  truly ! 
All  would  be  tranquil  by  to-morrow  evening  ! 

I  sat  up  all  night  with  Brann.  I  did  not  leave  Mr. 
Deane's  until  a  late  hour,  when  I  saw  Annie  apparently 
wrapped  in  a  peaceful  slumber,  and  betook  myself  to  a 
low  tavern  that  remained  open  all  night,  where  the  Bo- 
hemian awaited  me.  There  we  arranged  our  plan.  We 
were  to  take  a  boat  at  the  Battery,  at  the  earliest  glimpse 
of  dawn  ;  then,  provided  with  a  spade  and  shovel,  a 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  303 

pocket  compass,  and  a  valise  in  which  to  transport  our 
treasure,  we  were  to  row  down  to  our  destination.  I 
was  feverish  ancf  troubled.  The  strange  scene  I  had  wit- 
nessed, and  the  singular  adventure  that  awaited,  seemed 
in  combination  to  have  set  my  brain  on  fire.  My  temples 
throbbed ;  the  cold  perspiration  stood  upon  my  forehead, 
and  it  was  in  vain  that  I  allowed  myself  to  join  the  Bohe- 
mian in  the  huge  draughts  of  brandy  which  he  continu- 
ally gulped  down,  and  which  seemed  to  produce  little  or 
no  effect  on  his  iron  frame.  How  madly,  how  terribly,  I 
longed  for  the  dawn ! 

At  last  the  hour  came.  We  took  our  implements  in  a 
carriage  down  to  the  Battery,  hired  a  boat,  and  in  a  short 
time  were  out  in  the  stream  pulling  lustily  down  the 
foggy  harbor.  The  exercise  of  rowing  seemed  to  afford 
me  some  relief.  I  pulled  madly  at  my  oar,  until  the 
sweat  rolled  in  huge  drops  from  my  brow,  and  hung  in 
trembling  beads  on  the  curls  of  my  hair.  After  a  long 
and  wearisome  pull,  we  lauded  on  the  island  at  the  most 
secluded  spot  we  could  find,  taking  particular  care  that  it 
was  completely  sheltered  from  the  view  of  the  solitary 
hotel,  where  doubtless  inquisitive  idlers  would  be  found. 
After  beaching  our  boat  carefully,  we  struck  toward  the 
centre  of  the  island,  Brann  seeming  to  possess  some  won- 
derful instinct  for  the  discovery  of  localities,  for  almost 
without  any  trouble  he  walked  nearly  straight  to  the  spot 
we  were  in  search  of. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  said  he,  dropping  the  valise  which 
he  carried.  "  Here  are  the  three  ridges,  and  the  locust 
stake,  lying  exactly  due  north.  Let  us  see  what  the  true 
time  is." 

So  saying,  he  unlocked  the  valise  and  drew  forth  a 
small  sextant,  with  which  he  proceeded  to  take  an  ob- 


304  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

servation.  I  could  not  help  admiring  the  genius  of  this 
man,  who  seemed  to  think  of  and  foresee  everything. 
After  a  few  moments  engaged  in  making  calculations 
on  the  back  of  a  letter,  he  informed  me  that  exactly 
twenty-one  minutes  would  elapse  before  the  shadow  of 
the  locust-stake  would  fall  on  the  precise  spot  indicated 
by  the  seeress.  "  Just  time  enough,"  said  he,  "  to  enjoy 
a  cigar." 

Never  did  twenty-one  minutes  appear  so  long  to  a 
human  being  as  these  did  to  me.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  landscape  to  arrest  my  attention.  All  was  a  wild 
waste  of  sand,  on  which  a  few  patches  of  salt  grass  waved 
mournfully.  My  heart  beat  until  I  could  hear  its  pulsa- 
tions. A  thousand  times  I  thought  that  my  strength 
must  give  way  beneath  the  weight  of  my  emotions,  and 
that  death  would  overtake  me  ere  I  had  realized  my 
dreams.  I  was  obliged  at  length  to  dip  my  handkerchief 
in  a  marshy  pool  that  was  near  me,  and  bind  it  about 
my  burning  temples. 

At  length  the  shadow  from  the  locust  log  fell  upon  the 
enchanted  spot.  Brann  and  myself  seized  the  spades 
wildly,  and  dug  with  the  fury  of  ghouls  who  were  rooting 
up  their  loathsome  repast.  The  light  sand  flew  in  heaps 
on  all  sides.  The  sweat  rolled  from  our  bodies.  The 
hole  grew  deeper  and  deeper ! 

At  last  —  0  heavens !  —  a  metallic  sound  !  My  spade 
struck  some  hollow,  sonorous  substance.  My  limbs  fairly 
shook  as  I  flung  myself  into  the  pit,  and  scraped  the  sand 
away  with  my  nails.  I  laughed  like  a  madman,  and  bur- 
rowed like  a  mole.  The  Bohemian,  always  calm,  with  a 
few  strokes  of  his  shovel  laid  bare  an  old  iron  pot  with 
a  loose  lid.  In  an  instant  this  was  smashed  with  a  frantic 
blow  of  my  fist,  and  my  hands  were  buried  in  a  heap  of 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  305 

shining  gold!  Red,  glittering  coins,  —  bracelets  that 
seemed  to  glow  like  the  stars  in  heaven,  — goblets,  rings, 
jewels,  in  countless  profusion.  —  flashed  before  my  eyes 
for  an  instant  like  the  sparkles  of  an  aurora.  Then  came 
a  sudden  darkness  —  and  I  remember  no  more  ! 

How  long  I  lay  in  this  unconscious  state  I  know  not. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  aroused  by  a  sensation  similar 
to  that  of  having  water  poured  upon  me,  and  it  was  some 
moments  before  I  could  summon  up  sufficient  strength  to 
raise  myself  on  one  elbow.  I  looked  bewilderedly  around  : 
I  was  alone  !  I  then  strove  to  remember  something  that 
I  seemed  to  have  forgotten,  when  my  eye  fell  on  the  hole 
in  the  sand,  on  the  edge  of  which  I  found  I  was  lying. 
A  dull-red  gleam  as  of  gold  seemed  to  glimmer  from  out 
the  bottom.  This  talismanic  sight  restored  to  me  every- 
thing, —  my  memory  and  my  strength.  I  sprang  to  my 
feet :  I  gazed  around.  The  Bohemian  was  nowhere  visi- 
ble. Had  he  fled  with  the  treasure  1  My  heart  failed  me 
for  a  moment  at  the  thought ;  but  no !  there  lay  the 
treasure  gleaming  still  in  the  depths  of  the  hole,  with  a 
dull-red  light,  like  the  distant  glare  of  hell.  I  looked  at 
the  sun  ;  he  had  sunk  low  in  the  horizon,  and  the  dews 
already  falling  had,  with  the  damp  sea-air,  chilled  me  to 
the  bone.  While  I  was  brushing  the  moisture  from 
my  coat,  wondering  at  this  strange  conduct  of  the  Bohe- 
mian, my  eye  caught  sight  of  a  slip  of  paper  pinned 
upon  my  sleeve.  I  tore  it  off  eagerly.  It  contained  these 
words :  —  « 

"I  leave  you.     I  am  honest  though  I  am  selfish,  and- 
have  divided  with  you  the  treasure  which  you  have  helped 
me  to  gain.     You  are  now  rich,  but  it  may  be  that  you  will 
not  be  happy.     Return  to  the  city,  but  return  in  doubt. 

"THE  BOHEMIAN." 
20 


306  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

What  terrible  enigma  was  this  that  the  last  sentence  of 
this  note  enshrouded  1  what  veiled  mystery  was  it  that 
rose  before  my  inward  vision  in  shapeless  horror  $  I  knew 
not.  I  could  not  guess,  but  a  foreboding  of  some  un- 
known and  overwhelming  disaster  rushed  instantly  upon 
me,  and  seemed  to  crush  my  soul.  Was  it  Annie,  or 
was  it  my  father  1  One  thing  was  certain,  there  was  no 
time  to  be  lost  in  penetrating  the  riddle.  I  seized  the 
valise,  which  the  Bohemian  had  charitably  left  me,  — 
how  he  bore  away  his  own  share  of  the  treasure  I  know 
not,  —  and  poured  the  gold  and  jewels  into  it  with  trem- 
bling hands.  Then,  scarce  able  to  travel  with  the  weight 
of  the  treasure,  I  staggered  toward  the  beach,  where  we 
had  left  the  boat.  She  was  gone.  Without  wasting  an 
instant,  I  made  my  way  as  rapidly  as  I  could  to  the  dis- 
tant pier,  where  a  thin  stream  of  white  smoke  informed 
me  that  the  steamer  for  New  York  was  waiting  for  the 
bathers.  I  reached  her  just  as  she  was  about  to  start, 
and,  staggering  to  an  obscure  corner,  sorrowfully  sat  down 
upon  my  treasure. 

With  what  different  feelings  from  those  which  I  antici- 
pated was  I  returning  to  the  city.  My  dream  of  wealth 
had  been  realized  beyond  my  wildest  hopes.  All  that  I 
had  thought  necessary  to  yield  me  the  purest  happiness 
was  mine,  and  yet  there  was  not  a  more  miserable  wretch 
in  existence.  Those  fatal  words,  "Return  to  the  city, 
but  return  in  doubt ! "  were  ever  before  me.  0,  how  I 
'counted  every  stroke  of  the  engine  that  impelled  me  to 
•the  city ! 

There  was  a  poor,  blind,  humpbacked  fiddler  on  board, 
who  played  all  along  the  way.  He  played  execrably,  and 
his  music  made  my  flesh  creep.  As  we  neared  the  city 
he  came  round  with  his  hat  soliciting  alms.  In  my  reck- 


THE  BOHEMIAN.  307 

lessness,  I  tumbled  all  the  money  I  had  in  my  pockets 
into  his  hands.  I  never  shall  forget  the  look  of  joy  that 
flashed  over  his  poor  old  seared  and  sightless  face  at 
the  touch  of  these  few  dollars.  "  Good  heavens ! "  I 
groaned,  "here  am  I,  sitting  on  the  wealth  of  a  kingdom, 
which  is  all  mine,  and  dying  of  despair ;  while  this  old 
wretch  has  extracted  from  five  dollars  enough  of  happi- 
ness to  make  a  saint  envious !  "  Then  my  thoughts  wan- 
dered back  to  Annie  and  the  Bohemian,  and  there  always 
floated  before  me  in  the  air  the  agonizing  words,  "  Keturn 
to  the  city,  but  return  in  doubt !  " 

The  instant  I  reached  the  pier,  I  dashed  through  the 
crowd  with  my  valise,  and,  jumping  into  the  first  carriage 
I  met,  promised  a  liberal  bounty  to  the  driver  if  he  would 
drive  me  to  Amity  Place  in  the  shortest  possible  space  of 
time.  Stimulated  by  this,  we  flew  through  the  streets, 
and  in  a  few  moments  I  was  standing  at  Mr.  Deane's 
door.  Even  then  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  dark  cloud  hung 
over  that  house,  above  all  others  in  the  city.  I  rang; 
but  my  hand  had  scarcely  left  the  bell-handle  when  the 
door  opened,  and  Doctor  Lott,  the  family  physician,  ap- 
peared on  the  threshold.  He  looked  grave  and  sad. 

"  We  were  expecting  you,  Mr.  Cranstoun,"  he  said,  very 
mournfully. 

"  Has  —  has  anything  —  happened  1 "  I  stammered, 
catching  at  the  railings  for  support. 

"  Hush  !  come  in."  And  the  kind  Doctor  took  me  by 
the  arm  and  led  me  like  a  child  into  the  parlor. 

"  Doctor,  for  heaven's  sake,  tell  me  what  is  the  matter. 
I  know  something  has  happened.  Is  Annie  dead  1  0, 
my  brain  will  burst  unless  you  end  this  suspense ! " 

"  No, — not  dead.  But  tell  me,  Mr.  Cranstoun,  has  Miss 
Deane  experienced  any  uncommon  excitement  lately  1 " 


308  THE  BOHEMIAN. 

"  Yes  —  yes  —  last  night !  "  I  groaned  wildly,  "  she  was 
mesmerized  by  a  wretch.  0,  fool  that  I  was  to  suffer  it ! " 

"  Ah  !  that  explains  all,"  answered  the  Doctor.  Then 
he  took  my  hand  gently  in  his.  "  Prepare  yourself,  Mr. 
Cranstoun,"  he  continued,  with  deep  pity  in  his  voice, 
"  prepare  yourself  for  a  terrible  shock." 

"  She  is  dead,  then  !  "  I  murmured.     "  Is  she  not  1 " 

"  She  is.  She  died  this  morning,  of  over-excitement, 
of  the  cause  of  which  I  was  ignorant  until  now.  Calm 
yourself,  my  dear  sir.  She  expired  blessing  you." 

I  tore  myself  from  his  grasp,  and  rushed  up  stairs.  The 
door  of  her  room  was  open,  and,  in  spite  of  myself,  my 
agitated  tramp  softened  to  a  stealthy  footfall  as  I  entered. 
There  were  two  figures  in  the  room.  One  was  an  old 
man,  who  knelt  by  the  bedside  of  my  lost  love,  sobbing 
bitterly.  It  was  her  father.  The  other  lay  upon  the 
bed,  with  marble  face,  crossed  hands,  and  sealed  eyelids. 
All  was  tranquil  and  serene  in  the  chamber  of  death. 
Even  the  sobbings  of  the  father,  though  bitter,  were  muf- 
fled and  subdued.  And  she  lay  on  the  couch,  with  closed 
eyes,  the  calmest  of  all !  0,  the  seeress  now  saw  more 
than  earthly  science  could  show  her ! 

I  felt,  as  I  knelt  by  her  father  and  kissed  her  cold 
hand  in  the  agony  of  my  heart,  that  I  was  justly  pun- 
ished. 

Below  stairs,  in  the  valise,  lay  the  treasure  I  had  gained. 
Here,  in  her  grave-clothes,  lay  the  treasure  I  had  lost. 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  309 


THE  LOST  EOOM. 


IT  was  oppressively  warm.  The  sun  had  long  disap- 
peared, but  seemed  to  have  left  its  vital  spirit  of  heat  be- 
hind it.  The  air  rested ;  the  leaves  of  the  acacia-trees 
that  shrouded  my  windows  hung  plumb-like  on  their 
delicate  stalks.  The  smoke  of  my  cigar  scarce  rose 
above  my  head,  but  hung  about  me  in  a  pale  blue  cloud, 
which  I  had  to  dissipate  with  languid  waves  of  my  hand. 
My  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat,  and  my  chest  heaved 
laboriously  in  the  effort  to  catch  some  breaths  of  fresher 
air.  The  noises  of  the  city  seemed  to  be  wrapped  in  slum- 
ber, and  the  shrilling  of  the  mosquitoes  was  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  stillness. 

As  I  lay  with  my  feet  elevated  on  the  back  of  a  chair, 
wrapped  in  that  peculiar  frame  of  mind  in  which  thought 
assumes  a  species  of  lifeless  motion,  the  strange  fancy 
seized  me  of  making  a  languid  inventory  of  the  principal 
articles  of  furniture  in  my  room.  It  was  a  task  well 
suited  to  the  mood  in  which  I  found  myself.  Their  forms 
were  duskily  denned  in  the  dim  twilight  that  floated  shad- 
owily  through  the  chamber ;  it  was  no  labor  to  note  and 
particularize  each,  and  from  the  place  where  I  sat  I  could 
command  a  view  of  all  my  possessions  without  even  turn- 
ing my  head. 

There  was,  imprimis,  that  ghostly  lithograph  by  Car 


310  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

lame.  It  was  a  mere  black  spot  on  the  white  wall,  but 
my  inner  vision  scrutinized  every  detail  of  the  picture. 
A  wild,  desolate,  midnight  heath,  with  a  spectral  oak-tree 
in  the  centre  of  the  foreground.  The  wind  blows  fiercely, 
and  the  jagged  branches,  clothed  scantily  with  ill-grown 
leaves,  are  swept  to  the  left  continually  by  its  giant  force. 
A  formless  wrack  of  clouds  streams  across  the  awful  sky, 
and  the  rain  sweeps  almost  parallel  with  the  horizon. 
Beyond,  the  heath  stretches  off  into  endless  blackness,  in 
the  extreme  of  which  either  fancy  or  art  has  conjured  up 
some  undefinable  shapes  that  seem  riding  into  space.  At 
the  base  of  the  huge  oak  stands  a  shrouded  figure.  His 
mantle  is  wound  by  the  blast  in  tight  folds  around  his 
form,  and  the  long  cock's  feather  in  his  hat  is  blown 
upright,  till  it  seems  as  if  it  stood  on  end  with  fear.  His 
features  are  not  visible,  for  he  has  grasped  his  cloak  with 
both  hands,  and  drawn  it  from  either  side  across  his  face. 
The  picture  is  seemingly  objectless.  It  tells  no  tale,  but 
there  is  a  weird  power  about  it  that  haunts  one,  and  it 
was  for  that  I  bought  it. 

Next  to  the  picture  comes  the  round  blot  that  hangs 
below  it,  which  I  know  to  be  a  smoking-cap.  It  has  my 
coat  of  arms  embroidered  on  the  front,  and  for  that  reason 
I  never  wear  it ;  though,  when  properly  arranged  on  my 
head,  with  its  long  blue  silken  tassel  hanging  down  by  my 
cheek,  I  believe  it  becomes  me  well.  I  remember  the 
time  when  it  was  in  the  course  of  manufacture.  I  re- 
member the  tiny  little  hands  that  pushed  the  colored 
silks  so  nimbly  through  the  cloth  that  was  stretched  on 
the  embroidery-frame,  —  the  vast  trouble  I  was  put  to  "  to 
get  a  colored  copy  of  my  armorial  bearings  for  the  heral- 
dic work  which  was  to  decorate  the  front  of  the  band,  — 
the  pursings  up  of  the  little  mouth,  and  the  contractions 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  311 

of  the  young  forehead,  as  their  possessor  plunged  into  a 
profound  sea  of  cogitation  touching  the  way  in  which  the 
cloud  should  be  represented  from  which  the  armed  hand, 
that  is  my  crest,  issues,  —  the  heavenly  moment  when 
the  tiny  hands  placed  it  on  my  head,  in  a  position  that  I 
could  not  bear  for  more  than  a  few  seconds,  and  I,  king- 
like,  immediately  assumed  my  royal  prerogative  after  the 
coronation,  and  instantly  levied  a  tax  on  my  only  subject, 
which  was,  however,  not  paid  unwillingly.  Ah !  the  cap 
is  there,  but  the  embroiderer  has  fled ;  for  Atropos  was 
severing  the  web  of  life  above  her  head  while  she  was 
weaving  that  silken  shelter  for  mine  ! 

How  uncouthly  the  huge  piano  that  occupies  the  corner 
at  the  left  of  the  door  looms  out  in  the  uncertain  twi- 
light !  I  neither  play  nor  sing,  yet  I  own  a  piano.  It  is 
a  comfort  to  me  to  look  at  it,  and  to  feel  that  the  music 
is  there,  although  I  am  not  able  to  break  the  spell  that 
binds  it.  It  is  pleasant  to  know  that  Bellini  and  Mo- 
zart, Cimarosa,  Porpora,  Gliick,  and  all  such,  —  or  at  least 
their  souls,  —  sleep  in  that  unwieldy  case.  There  lie  em- 
balmed, as  it  were,  all  operas,  sonatas,  oratorios,  nottur- 
nos,  marches;  songs,  and  dances,  that  ever  climbed  into  ex- 
istence through  the  four  ]bars  that  wall  in  melody.  Once 
I  was  entirely  repaid  for  the  investment  of  my  funds  in 
that  instrument  which  I  never  use.  Blokeeta,  the  com- 
poser, came  to  see  me.  Of  course  his  instincts  urged  him 
as  irresistibly  to  my  piano  as  if  some  magnetic  power  lay 
within  it  compelling  him  to  approach.  He  tuned  it,  he 
played  on  it.  All  night  long,  until  the  gray  and  spectral 
dawn  rose  out  of  the  depths  of  the  midnight,  he  sat  and 
played,  and  I  lay  smoking  by  the  window  listening.  Wild, 
unearthly,  and  sometimes  insufferably  painful,  were  the 
improvisations  of  Blokeeta.  The  chords  of  the  instru- 


312  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

ment  seemed  breaking  with  anguish.  Lost  souls  shrieked 
in  his  dismal  preludes ;  the  half-heard  utterances  of  spir- 
its in  pain,  that  groped  at  inconceivable  distances  from 
anything  lovely  or  harmonious,  seemed  to  rise  dimly  up 
out  of  the  waves  of  sound  that  gathered  under  his  hands. 
Melancholy  human  love  wandered  out  on  distant  heaths, 
or  beneath  dank  and  gloomy  cypresses,  murmuring  its  un- 
answered sorrow,  or  hateful  gnomes  sported  and  sang  in 
the  stagnant  swamps,  triumphing  in  unearthly  tones  over 
the  knight  whom  they  had  lured  to  his  death.  Such  was 
Blokeeta's  night's  entertainment ;  and  when  he  at  length 
closed  the  piano,  and  hurried  away  through  the  cold  morn- 
ing, he  left  a  memory  about  the  instrument  from  which 
I  could  never  escape. 

Those  snow-shoes  that  hang  in  the  space  between  the 
mirror  and  the  door  recall  Canadian  wanderings,  —  a  long 
race  through  the  dense  forests,  over  the  frozen  snow, 
through  whose  brittle  crust  the  slender  hoofs  of  the  cari- 
bou that  we  were  pursuing  sank  at  every  step,  until  the 
poor  creature  despairingly  turned  at  bay  in  a  small  juni- 
per coppice,  and  we  heartlessly  shot  him  down.  And  I 
remember  how  Gabriel,  the  habitant,  and  Francois,  the 
half-breed,  cut  his  throat,  and  how  the  hot  blood  rushed 
out  in  a  torrent  over  the  snowy  soil ;  and  I  recall  the 
snow  cabane  that  Gabriel  built,  where  we  all  three  slept 
so  warmly;  and  the  great  fire  that  glowed  at  our  feet, 
painting  all  kinds  of  demoniac  shapes  on  the  black  screen 
of  forest  that  lay  without ;  and  the  deer-steaks  that  we 
roasted  for  our  breakfast ;  and  the  savage  drunkenness  of 
Gabriel  in  the  morning,  he  having  been  privately  drinking 
out  of  my  brandy-flask  all  the  night  long. 

That  long,  haftless  dagger  that  dangles  over  the  mantel- 
piece makes  my  heart  swell.  I  found  it,  when  a  boy,  in 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  313 

a  hoary  old  castle  in  which  one  of  my  maternal  ancestors 
once  lived.  That  same  ancestor  —  who,  by  the  way,  yet 
lives  in  history  —  was  a  strange  old  sea-king,  who  dwelt 
on  the  extremest  point  of  the  southwestern  coast  of  Ire- 
land. He  owned  the  whole  of  that  fertile  island  called 
Inniskeiran,  which  directly  faces  Cape  Clear,  where  be- 
tween them  the  Atlantic  rolls  furiously,  forming  what  the 
fishermen  of  the  place  call  "  the  Sound."  An  awful  place 
in  winter  is  that  same  Sound.  On  certain  days  no  boat 
can  live  there  for  a  moment,  and  Cape  Clear  is  frequently 
cut  off  for  days  from  any  communication  with  the  main 
land. 

This  old  sea-king  —  Sir  Florence  O'Driscoll  by  name  — 
passed  a  stormy  life.  From  the  summit  of  his  castle  he 
watched  the  ocean,  and  when  any  richly  laden  vessels, 
bound  from  the  south  to  the  industrious  Gal  way  mer- 
chants, hove  in  sight,  Sir  Florence  hoisted  the  sails  of  his 
galley,  and  it  went  hard  with  him  if  he  did  not  tow  into 
harbor  ship  and  crew.  In  this  way  he  lived ;  not  a  very 
honest  mode  of  livelihood,  certainly,  according  to  our 
modern  ideas,  but  quite  reconcilable  with  the  morals  of 
the  time.  As  may  be  supposed,  Sir  Florence  got  into 
trouble.  Complaints  were  laid  against  him  at  the  English 
court  by  the  plundered  merchants,  and  the  Irish  viking 
set  out  for  London,  to  plead  his  own  cause  before  good 
Queen  Bess,  as  she  was  called.  He  had  one  powerful 
recommendation  :  he  was  a  marvellously  handsome  man. 
Not  Celtic  by  descent,  but  half  Spanish,  half  Danish  in 
blood,  he  had  the  great  northern  stature  with  the  regular 
features,  flashing  eyes,  and  dark  hair  of  the  Iberian  race. 
This  may  account  for  the  fact  that  his  stay  at  the  English 
court  was  much  longer  than  was  necessary,  as  also  for 
the  tradition,  which  a  local  historian  mentions,  that  the 


314  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

English  Queen  evinced  a  preference  for  the  Irish  chieftain, 
of  other  nature  than  that  usually  shown  by  monarch  to 
subject. 

Previous  to  his  departure,  Sir  Florence  had  intrusted 
the  care  of  his  property  to  an  Englishman  named  Hull. 
During  the  long  absence  of  the  knight,  this  person  man- 
aged to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  local  authorities,  and 
gain  their  favor  so  far  that  they  were  willing  to  support 
him  in  almost  any  scheme.  After  a  protracted  stay,  Sir 
Florence,  pardoned  of  all  his  misdeeds,  returned  to  his 
home.  Home  no  longer.  Hull  was  in  possession,  and 
refused  to  yield  an  acre  of  the  lands  he  had  so  nefariously 
acquired.  It  was  no  use  appealing  to  the  law,  for  its 
officers  were  in  the  opposite  interest.  It  was  no  use 
appealing  to  the  Queen,  for  she  had  another  lover,  and 
had  forgotten  the  poor  Irish  knight  by  this  time ;  and  so 
the  viking  passed  the  best  portion  of  his  life  in  unsuccessful 
attempts  to  reclaim  his  vast  estates,  and  was  eventually, 
in  his  old  age,  obliged  to  content  himself  with  his  castle 
by  the  sea  and  the  island  of  Inniskeiran,  the  only  spot  of 
which  the  usurper  was  unable  to  deprive  him.  So  this 
old  story  of  my  kinsman's  fate  looms  up  out  of  the  dark- 
ness that  enshrouds  that  haftless  dagger  hanging  on  the 
wall. 

It  was  somewhat  after  the  foregoing  fashion  that  I 
dreamily  made  the  inventory  of  my  personal  property. 
As  I  turned  my  eyes  on  each  object,  one  after  the  other, 
—  or  the  places  where  they  lay,  for  the  room  was  now  so 
dark  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  see  with  any  dis- 
tinctness, —  a  crowd  of  memories  connected  with  each 
rose  up  before  me,  and,  perforce,  I  had  to  indulge  them. 
So  I  proceeded  but  slowly,  and  at  last  my  cigar  shortened 
to  a  hot  and  bitter  morsel  that  I  could  barely  hold  be- 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  315 

tween  my  lips,  while  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  night  grew 
each  moment  more  insufferably  oppressive.  While  I  was 
revolving  some  impossible  means  of  cooling  my  wretched 
body,  the  cigar  stump  began  to  burn  my  lips.  I  flung  it 
angrily  through  the  open  window,  and  stooped  out  to 
watch  it  falling.  It  first  lighted  on  the  leaves  of  the 
acacia,  sending  out  a  spray  of  red  sparkles,  then,  rolling 
off,  it  fell  plump  on  the  dark  walk  in  the  garden,  faintly 
illuminating  for  a  moment  the  dusky  trees  and  breathless 
flowers.  Whether  it  was  the  contrast  between  the  red 
flash  of  the  cigar-stump  and  the  silent  darkness  of  the 
garden,  or  whether  it  was  that  I  detected  by  the  sudden 
light  a  faint  waving  of  the  leaves,  I  know  not ;  but  some- 
thing suggested  to  me  that  the  garden  was  cool.  I  will 
take  a  turn  there,  thought  I,  just  as  I  am ;  it  cannot  be 
warmer  than  this  room,  and  however  still  the  atmosphere, 
there  is  always  a  feeling  of  liberty  and  spaciousness  in 
the  open  air,  that  partially  supplies  one's  wants.  With 
this  idea  running  through  my  head,  I  arose,  lit  another 
cigar,  and  passed  out  into  the  long,  intricate  corridors 
that  led  to  the  main  staircase.  As  I  crossed  the  threshold 
of  my  room,  with  what  a  different  feeling  I  should  have 
passed  it  had  I  known  that  I  was  never  to  set  foot  in  it 
again  ! 

I  lived  in  a  very  large  house,  in  which  I  occupied  two 
rooms  on  the  second  floor.  The  house  was  old-fashioned, 
and  all  the  floors  communicated  by  a  huge  circular  stair- 
case that  wound  up  through  the  centre  of  the  building, 
while  at  every  landing  long,  rambling  corridors  stretched 
off  into  mysterious  nooks  and  corners.  This  palace  of 
mine  was  very  high,  and  its  resources,  in  the  way  of 
crannies  and  windings,  seemed  to  be  interminable.  Noth- 
ing seemed  to  stop  anywhere.  Cul-de-sacs  were  unknown 


316  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

on  the  premises.  The  corridors  and  passages,  like  mathe- 
matical lines,  seemed  capable  of  indefinite  extension,  and 
the  object  of  the  architect  must  have  been  to  erect  an 
edifice  in  which  people  might  go  ahead  forever.  The 
whole  place  was  gloomy,  not  so  much  because  it  was 
large,  but  because  an  unearthly  nakedness  seemed  to  per- 
vade the  structure.  The  staircases,  corridors,  halls,  and 
vestibules  all  partook  of  a  desert-like  desolation.  There 
was  nothing  on  the  walls  to  break  the  sombre  monotony 
of  those  long  vistas  of  shade.  No  carvings  on  the  wain- 
scoting, no  moulded  masks  peering  down  from  the  simply 
severe  cornices,  no  marble  vases  on  the  landings.  There 
was  an  eminent  dreariness  and  want  of  life  —  so  rare  in 
an  American  establishment  —  all  over  the  abode.  It  was 
Hood's  haunted  house  put  in  order  and  newly  painted. 
The  servants,  too,  were  shadowy,  and  chary  of  their  visits. 
Bells  rang  three  times  before  the  gloomy  chambermaid 
could  be  induced  to  present  herself ;  and  the  negro  waiter, 
a  ghoul-like  looking  creature  from  Congo,  obeyed  the 
summons  only  when  one's  patience  was  exhausted  or  one's 
want  satisfied  in  some  other  way.  When  he  did  come, 
one  felt  sorry  that  he  had  not  stayed  away  altogether,  so 
sullen  and  savage  did  he  appear.  He  moved  along  the 
echoless  floors  with  a  slow,  noiseless  shamble,  until  his 
dusky  figure,  advancing  from  the  gloom,  seemed  like  some 
reluctant  afreet,  compelled  by  the  superior  power  of  his 
master  to  disclose  himself.  When  the  doors  of  all  the 
chambers  were  closed,  and  no  light  illuminated  the  long 
corridor  save  the  red,  unwholesome  glare  of  a  small  oil 
lamp  on  a  table  at  the  end,  where  late  lodgers  lit  their 
candles,  one  could  not  by  any  possibility  conjure  up  a 
sadder  or  more  desolate  prospect. 

Yet  the  house  suited  me.     Of  meditative  and  sedentary 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  317 

habits,  I  enjoyed  the  extreme  quiet.  There  were  but 
few  lodgers,  from  which  I  infer  that  the  landlord  did 
not  drive  a  very  thriving  trade  ;  and  these,  probably  op- 
pressed by  the  sombre  spirit  of  the  place,  were  quiet  and 
ghost-like  in  their  movements.  The  proprietor  I  scarcely 
ever  saw.  My  bills  were  deposited  by  unseen  hands 
every  month  on  my  table,  while  I  was  out  walking  or 
riding,  and  my  pecuniary  response  was  intrusted  to  the 
attendant  afreet.  On  the  whole,  when  the  bustling,  wide- 
awake spirit  of  New  York  is  taken  into  consideration,  the 
sombre,  half-vivified  character  of  the  house  in  which  I 
lived  was  an  anomaly  that  no  one  appreciated  better  than 
I  who  lived  there. 

I  felt  my  way  down  the  wide,  dark  staircase  in  my  pur- 
suit of  zephyrs.  The  garden,  as  I  entered  it,  did  feel 
somewhat  cooler  than  my  own  room,  and  I  puffed  my 
cigar  along  the  dim,  cypress-shrouded  walks  with  a  sensa- 
tion of  comparative  relief.  It  was  very  dark.  The  tall- 
growing  flowers  that  bordered  the  path  were  so  wrapped  in 
gloom  as  to  present  the  aspect  of  solid  pyramidal  masses, 
all  the  details  of  leaves  and  blossoms  being  buried  in  an 
embracing  darkness,  while  the  trees  had  lost  all  form, 
and  seemed  like  masses  of  overhanging  cloud.  It  was  a 
place  and  time  to  excite  the  imagination ;  for  in  the  im- 
penetrable cavities  of  endless  gloom  there  was  room  for 
the  most  riotous  fancies  to  play  at  will.  I  walked  and 
walked,  and  the  echoes  of  my  footsteps  on  the  uugravelled 
and  mossy  path  suggested  a  double  feeling.  I  felt  alone 
and  yet  in  company  at  the  same  time.  The  solitariness 
of  the  place  made  itself  distinct  enough  in  the  stillness, 
broken  alone  by  the  hollow  reverberations  of  my  step, 
while  those  very  reverberations  seemed  to  imbue  me  with 
an  undefined  feeling  that  I  was  not  alone.  I  was  not, 


318  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

therefore,  much  startled  when  I  was  suddenly  accosted 
from  beneath  the  solid  darkness  of  an  immense  cypress 
by  a  voice  saying,  "  Will  you  give  me  a  light,  sir  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  I  replied,  trying  in  vain  to  distinguish  the 
speaker  amidst  the  impenetrable  dark. 

Somebody  advanced,  and  I  held  out  my  cigar.  All  I 
could  gather  definitively  about  the  individual  who  thus 
accosted  me  was  that  he  must  have  been  of  extremely 
small  stature ;  for  I,  who  am  by  no  means  an  overgrown 
man,  had  to  stoop  considerably  in  handing  him  my  cigar. 
The  vigorous  puff  that  he  gave  his  own  lighted  up  my 
Havana  for  a  moment,  and  I  fancied  that  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  pale,  weird  countenance,  immersed  in  a  back- 
ground of  long,  wild  hair.  The  flash  was,  however,  so 
momentary  that  I  could  not  even  say  certainly  whether 
this  was  an  actual  impression  or  the  mere  effort  of  imagi- 
nation to  embody  that  which  the  senses  had  failed  to 
distinguish. 

"  Sir,  you  are  out  late,"  said  this  unknown  to  me,  as 
he,  with  half-uttered  thanks,  handed  me  back  my  cigar, 
for  which  I  had  to  grope  in  the  gloom. 

"  Not  later  than  usual,"  I  replied,  dryly. 

"  Hum  !  you  are  fond  of  late  wanderings,  then  1 " 

"  That  is  just  as  the  fancy  seizes  me." 

"  Do  you  live  here  1 " 

"Yes." 

"  Queer  house,  is  n't  it  1 " 

"  I  have  only  found  it  quiet." 

"  Hum  !  But  you  will  find  it  queer,  take  my  word  for 
it."  This  was  earnestly  uttered  ;  and  I  felt  at  the  same 
time  a  bony  finger  laid  on  my  arm,  that  cut  it  sharply 
like  a  blunted  knife. 

"  I  cannot  take  your  word  for  any  such  assertion,"  I 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  319 

replied,  rudely,  shaking  off  the  bony  finger  with  an  irre- 
pressible motion  of  disgust. 

"  No  offence,  no  offence,"  muttered  my  unseen  com- 
panion rapidly,  in  a  strange,  subdued  voice,  that  would 
have  been  shrill  had  it  been  louder ;  "  your  being  angry 
does  not  alter  the  matter.  You  will  find  it  a  queer  house. 
Everybody  finds  it  a  queer  house.  Do  you  know  who 
live  there  ] " 

"  I  never  busy  myself,  sir,  about  other  people's  affairs," 
I  answered  sharply,  for  the  individual's  manner,  combined 
with  my  utter  uncertainty  as  to  his  appearance,  oppressed 
me  with  an  irksome  longing  to  be  rid  of  him. 

"  0,  you  don't  1  Well,  I  do.  I  know  what  they  are, 
—  well,  well,  well !  "  and  as  he  pronounced  the  three  last 
words  his  voice  rose  with  each,  until,  with  the  last,  it 
reached  a  shrill  shriek  that  echoed  horribly  among  the 
lonely  walks.  "  Do  you  know  what  they  eat  1 "  he  con- 
tinued. 

"  No,  sir,  —  nor  care." 

"  0,  but  you  will  care.  You  must  care.  You  shall 
care.  I  '11  tell  you  what  they  are.  They  are  enchanters. 
They  are  ghouls.  They  are  cannibals.  Did  you  never 
remark  their  eyes,  and  how  they  gloated  on  you  when 
you  passed]  Did  you  never  remark  the  food  that  they 
served  up  at  your  table  1  Did  you  never  in  the  dead  of 
night  hear  muffled  and  unearthly  footsteps  gliding  along 
the  corridors,  and  stealthy  hands  turning  the  handle  of 
your  door  1  Does  not  some  magnetic  influence  fold  itself 
continually  around  you  when  they  pass,  and  send  a  thrill 
through  spirit  and  body,  and  a  cold  shiver  that  no  sun- 
shine will  chase  away  1  0,  you  have !  You  have  felt 
all  these  things  !  I  know  it ! " 

The  earnest  rapidity,  the  subdued  tones,  the  eagerness 


320  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

of  accent,  with  which  all  this  was  uttered,  impressed  me 
most  uncomfortably.  It  really  seemed  as  if  I  could  recall 
all  those  weird  occurrences  and  influences  of  which  he 
spoke ;  and  I  shuddered  in  spite  of  myself  in  the  midst 
of  the  impenetrable  darkness  that  surrounded  me. 

"  Hum  !  "  said  I,  assuming,  without  knowing  it,  a  confi- 
dential tone,  "  may  I  ask  how  you  know  these  things  T 

"  How  I  know  them  1  Because  I  am  their  enemy ;  be- 
cause they  tremble  at  my  whisper  ;  because  I  hang  upon 
their  track  with  the  perseverance  of  a  bloodhound  and 
the  steal thiness  of  a  tiger  •  because  —  because  —  I  was 
of  them  once  !  " 

"  Wretch ! "  I  cried  excitedly,  for  involuntarily  his 
eager  tones  had  wrought  me  up  to  a  high  pitch  of  spas- 
modic nervousness,  "  then  you  mean  to  say  that  you- —  " 

As  I  uttered  this  word,  obeying  an  uncontrollable  im- 
pulse, I  stretched  forth  my  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
speaker  and  made  a  blind  clutch.  The  tips  of  my  fingers 
seemed  to  touch  a  surface  as  smooth  as  glass,  that  glided 
suddenly  from  under  them.  A  sharp,  angry  hiss  sounded 
through  the  gloom,  followed  by  a  whirring  noise,  as  if 
soniQ  projectile  passed  rapidly  by,  and  the  next  moment  I 
felt  instinctively  that  I  was  alone. 

A  most  disagreeable  feeling  instantly  assailed  me  ;  —  a 
prophetic  instinct  that  some  terrible  misfortune  menaced 
me;  an  eager  and  overpowering  anxiety  to  get  back  to 
my  own  room  without  loss  of  time.  I  turned  and  ran 
blindly  along  the  dark  cypress  alley,  every  dusky  clump 
of  flowers  that  rose  blackly  in  the  borders  making  my 
heart  each  moment  cease  to  beat.  The  echoes  of  my 
own  footsteps  seemed  to  redouble  and  assume  the  sounds 
of  unknown  pursuers  following  fast  upon  my  track.  The 
boughs  of  lilac-bushes  and  syringas,  that  here  and  there 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  321 

stretched  partly  across  the  walk,  seemed  to  have  been 
furnished  suddenly  with  hooked  hands  that  sought  to 
grasp  me  as  I  flew  by,  and  each  moment  I  expected  to 
behold  some  awful  and  impassable  barrier  fall  across  my 
track  and  wall  me  up  forever. 

At  length  I  reached  the  wide  entrance.  With  a  single 
leap  I  sprang  up  the  four  or  five  steps  that  formed  the 
stoop,  and  dashed  along  the  hall,  up  the  wide,  echoing 
stairs,  and  again  along  the  dim,  funereal  corridors  until 
I  paused,  breathless  and  panting,  at  the  door  of  my  room. 
Once  so  far,  I  stopped  for  an  instant  and  leaned  heavily 
against  one  of  the  panels,  panting  lustily  after  my  late 
run.  I  had,  however,  scarcely  rested  my  whole  weight 
against  the  door,  when  it  suddenly  gave  way,  and  I  stag- 
gered in  head-foremost.  To  my  utter  astonishment  the 
room  I  had  left  in  profound  darkness  was  now  a  blaze  of 
light.  So  intense  was  the  illumination  that,  for  a  few 
seconds  while  the  pupils  of  my  eyes  were  contracting 
under  the  sudden  change,  I  saw  absolutely  nothing  save 
the  dazzling  glare.  This  fact  in  itself,  coming  on  me  with 
such  utter  suddenness,  was  sufficient  to  prolong  my  con- 
fusion, and  it  was  not  until  after  several  minutes  had 
elapsed  that  I  perceived  the  room  was  not  only  illumi- 
nated, but  occupied.  And  such  occupants  !  Amazement 
at  the  scene  took  such  possession  of  me  that  I  was  inca- 
pable of  either  moving  or  uttering  a  word.  All  that  I 
could  do  was  to  lean  against  the  wall,  and  stare  blankly 
at  the  strange  picture. 

It  might  have  been  a  scene  out  of  Faublas,  or  Gram- 
mont's  Memoirs,  or  happened  in  some  palace  of  Minister 
Fouque. 

Round  a  large  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  where 
I  had  left  a  student-like  litter  of  books  and  papers,  were 

21 


322  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

seated  half  a  dozen  persons.  Three  were  men  and  three 
were  women.  The  table  was  heaped  with  a  prodigality 
of  luxuries.  Luscious  eastern  fruits  were  piled  up  in 
silver  filigree  vases,  through  whose  meshes  their  glowing 
rinds  shone  in  the  contrasts  of  a  thousand  hues.  Small 
silver  dishes  that  Benvenuto  might  have  designed,  filled 
with  succulent  and  aromatic  meats,  were  distributed  upon 
a  cloth  of  snowy  damask.  Bottles  of  every  shape,  slender 
ones  from  the  Rhine,  stout  fellows  from  Holland,  sturdy 
ones  from  Spain,  and  quaint  basket-woven  flasks  from 
Italy,  absolutely  littered  the  board.  Drinking-glasses  of 
every  sfze  and  hue  filled  up  the  interstices,  and  the 
thirsty  German  flagon  stood  side  by  side  with  the  aerial 
bubbles  of  Venetian  glass  that  rest  so  lightly  on  their 
threadlike  steins.  An  odor  of  luxury  and  sensuality 
floated  through  the  apartment.  The  lamps  that  burned 
in  every  direction  seemed  to  diffuse  a  subtle  incense  on 
the  air,  and  in  a  large  vase  that  stood  on  the  floor  I  saw 
a  mass  of  magnolias,  tuberoses,  and  jasmines  grouped  to- 
gether, stifling  each  other  with  their  honeyed  and  heavy 
fragrance. 

The  inhabitants  of  my  room  seemed  beings  well  suited 
to  so  sensual  an  atmosphere.  The  women  were  strangely 
beautiful,  and  all  were  attired  in  dresses  of  the  most  fan- 
tastic devices  and  brilliant  hues.  Their  figures  were 
round,  supple,  and  elastic ;  their  eyes  dark  and  languish- 
ing ;  their  lips  full,  ripe,  and  of  the  richest  bloom.  The 
three  men  wore  half-masks,  so  that  all  I  could  distinguish 
were  heavy  jaws,  pointed  beards,  and  brawny  throats 
that  rose  like  massive  pillars  out  of  their  doublets.  All 
six  lay  reclining  on  Roman  couches  about  the  table,  drink- 
ing down  the  purple  wines  in  large  draughts,  and  tossing 
back  their  heads  and  laughing  wildly. 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  323 

I  stood,  I  suppose,  for  some  three  minutes,  with  my 
back  against  the  wall  staring  vacantly  at  the  bacchanal 
vision,  before  any  of  the  revellers  appeared  to  notice  my 
presence.  At  length,  without  any  expression  to  indicate 
whether  I  had  been  observed  from  the  beginning  or  not, 
two  of  the  women  arose  from  their  couches,  and,  approach- 
ing, took  each  a  hand  and  led  me  to  the  table.  I  obeyed 
their  motions  mechanically.  I  sat  on  a  couch  between 
them  as  they  indicated.  I  unresistingly  permitted  them 
to  wind  their  arms  about  my  neck. 

"  You  must  drink,"  said  one,  pouring  out  a  large  glass 
of  red  wine,  "  here  is  Clos  Vougeot  of  a  fare  vintage ; 
and  here,"  pushing  a  flask  of  amber-hued  wine  before  me, 
"  is  Lachryma  Christi." 

"  You  must  eat,"  said  the  other,  drawing  the  silver 
dishes  toward  her.  "  Here  are  cutlets  stewed  with  olives, 
and  here  are  slices  of  a  filet  stuffed  with  bruised  sweet 
chestnuts  " ;  —  and  as  she  spoke,  she,  without  waiting  for 
a  reply,  proceeded  to  help  me. 

The  sight  of  the  food  recalled  to  me  the  warnings  I 
had  received  in  the  garden.  This  sudden  effort  of  mem- 
ory restored  to  me  my  other  faculties  at  the  same  instant. 
I  sprang  to  my  feet,  thrusting  the  women  from  me  with 
each  hand. 

"  Demons !  "  I  almost  shouted,  "  I  will  have  none  of 
your  accursed  food.  I  know  you.  You  are  cannibals, 
you  are  ghouls,  you  are  enchanters.  Begone,  I  tell  you ! 
Leave  my  room  in  peace  !  " 

A  shout  of  laughter  from  all  six  was  the  only  effect 
that  my  passionate  speech  produced.  The  men  rolled  on 
their  couches,  and  their  half-masks  quivered  with  the 
convulsions  of  their  mirth.  The  women  shrieked,  and 
tossed  the  slender  wine-glasses  wildly  aloft,  and  turned 


324  THE  LOST  KOOM. 

to  me  and  flung  themselves  on  my  bosom  fairly  sobbing 
with  laughter. 

"  Yes,"  I  continued,  as  soon  as  the  noisy  mirth  had 
subsided,  "  yes,  I  say,  leave  my  room  instantly  !  I  will 
have  none  of  your  unnatural  orgies  here  !  " 

"  His  room  !  "  shrieked  the  woman  on  my  right. 

"  His  room  !  "  echoed  she  on  my  left. 

"  His  room !  He  calls  it  his  room ! "  shouted  the  whole 
party,  as  they  rolled  once  more  into  jocular  convulsions. 

"  How  know  you  that  it  is  your  room  1 "  said  one  of 
the  men  who  sat  opposite  to  me,  at  length,  after  the 
laughter  had  once  more  somewhat  subsided. 

"How  do  I  knowT'  I  replied,  indignantly.  "  How  do 
I  know  my  own  room  7  How  could  I  mistake  it,  pray1? 
There 's  my  furniture  —  my  piano  —  " 

"  He  calls  that  a  piano  !  "  shouted  my  neighbors,  again 
in  convulsions  as  I  pointed  to  the  corner  where  my  huge 
piano,  sacred  to  the  memory  of  Blokeeta,  used  to  stand. 
"  0,  yes  !  It  is  his  room.  There  —  there  is  his  piano  !  " 

The  peculiar  emphasis  they  laid  on  the  word  "  piano  " 
caused  me  to  scrutinize  the  article  I  was  indicating  more 
thoroughly.  Up  to  this  time,  though  utterly  amazed  at 
the  entrance  of  these  people  into  my  chamber,  and  con- 
necting them  somewhat  with  the  wild  stories  I  had  heard 
in  the  garden,  I  still  had  a  sort  of  indefinite  idea  that  the 
whole  thing  was  a  masquerading  freak  got  up  in  my 
absence,  and  that  the  bacchanalian  orgie  I  was  witnessing 
was  nothing  more  than  a  portion  of  some  elaborate  hoax 
of  which  I  was  to  be  the  victim.  But  when  my  eyes 
turned  to  the  corner  where  I  had  left  a  huge  and  cum- 
brous piano,  and  beheld  a  vast  and  sombre  organ  lifting 
its  fluted  front  to  the  very  ceiling,  and  convinced  my- 
self, by  a  hurried  process  of  memory,  that  it  occupied  the 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  325 

very  spot  in  which  I  had  left  my'  own  instrument,  the 
little  self-possession  that  I  had  left  forsook  me.  I  gazed 
around  me  bewildered. 

In  like  manner  everything  was  changed.  In  the  place 
of  that  old  haftless  dagger,  connected  with  so  many  his- 
toric associations  personal  to  myself,  I  beheld  a  Turkish 
yataghan  dangling  by  its  belt  of  crimson  silk,  while  the 
jewels  in  the  hilt  blazed  as  the  lamplight  played  upon 
them.  In  the  spot  where  hung  my  cherished  smoking- 
cap,  memorial  of  a  buried  love,  a  knightly  casque  was 
suspended,  on  the  crest  of  which  a  golden  dragon  stood 
in  the  act  of  springing.  That  strange  lithograph  by  Ca- 
lame  was  no  longer  a  lithograph,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  portion  of  the  wall  which  it  had  covered,  of  the  exact 
shape  and  size,  had  been  cut  out,  and,  in  place  of  the  pic- 
ture, a  real  scene  on  the  same  scale,  and  with  real  actors, 
was  distinctly  visible.  The  old  oak  was  there,  and  the 
stormy  sky  was  there ;  but  I  saw  the  branches  of  the  oak 
sway  with  the  tempest,  and  the  clouds  drive  before  the 
wind.  The  wanderer  in  his  cloak  was  gone ;  but  in  his 
place  I  beheld  a  circle  of  wild  figures,  men  and  women, 
dancing  with  linked  hands  around  the  bole  of  the  great 
tree,  chanting  some  wild  fragment  of  a  song,  to  which  the 
winds  roared  an  unearthly  chorus.  The  snow-shoes,  too, 
on  whose  sinewy  woof  I  had  sped  for  many  days  amidst 
Canadian  wastes,  had  vanished,  and  in  their  place  lay  a 
pair  of  strange  up-curled  Turkish  slippers,  that  had, 
perhaps,  been  many  a  time  shuffled  off  at  the  doors  of 
mosques,  beneath  the  steady  blaze  of  an  orient  sun. 

All  was  changed.  Wherever  my  eyes  turned  they 
missed  familiar  objects,  yet  encountered  strange  repre- 
sentatives. Still,  in  all  the  substitutes  there  seemed  to 
me  a  reminiscence  of  what  they  replaced.  They  seemed 


326  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

only  for  a  time  transmuted  into  other  shapes,  and  there 
lingered  around  them  the  atmosphere  of  what  they  once 
had  been.  Thus  I  could  have  sworn  the  room  to  have 
been  mine,  yet  there  was  nothing  in  it  that  I  could 
rightly  claim.  Everything  reminded  me  of  some  for- 
mer possession  that  it  was  not.  I  looked  for  the  acacia 
at  the  window,  and,  lo !  long,  silken  palm-leaves  swayed 
in  through  the  open  lattice ;  yet  they  had  the  same  mo- 
tion and  the  same  air  of  my  favorite  tree,  and  seemed 
to  murmur  to  me,  "  Though  we  seem  to  be  palm-leaves, 
yet  are  we  acacia-leaves ;  yea,  those  very  ones  on  which 
you  used  to  watch  the  butterflies  alight  and  the  rain  pat- 
ter while  you  smoked  and  dreamed  ! "  So  in  all  things ; 
the  room  was,  yet  was  not,  mine ;  and  a  sickening  con- 
sciousness of  my  utter  inability  to  reconcile  its  identity 
with  its  appearance  overwhelmed  me,  and  choked  my 
reason. 

"Well,  have  you  determined  whether  or  not  this  is 
your  room  1 "  asked  the  girl  on  my  left,  proffering  me  a 
huge  tumbler  creaming  over  with  champagne,  and  laugh- 
ing wickedly  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  is  mine,"  I  answered,  doggedly,  striking  the  glass 
rudely  with  my  hand,  and  dashing  the  aromatic  wine 
over  the  white  cloth.  "  I  know  that  it  is  mine  ;  and  ye 
are  jugglers  and  enchanters  who  want  to  drive  me  mad." 

"  Hush  !  hush ! "  she  said,  gently,  not  in  the  least  an- 
gered a,t  my  rough  treatment.  "  You  are  excited.  Alf 
shall  play  something  to  soothe  you." 

At  her  signal,  one  of  the  men  sat  down  at  the  organ. 
After  a  short,  wild,  spasmodic  prelude,  he  began  what 
seemed  to  me  to  be  a  symphony  of  recollections.  Dark 
and  sombre,  and  all  through  full  of  quivering  and  in- 
tense agony,  it  appeared  to  recall  a  dark  and  dismal 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  327 

night,  on  a  cold  reef,  around  which  an  unseen  but  ter- 
ribly audible  ocean  broke  with  eternal  fury.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  lonely  pair  were  on  the  reef,  one  living,  the  other 
dead ;  one  clasping  his  arms  around  the  tender  neck  and 
naked  bosom  of  the  other,  striving  to  warm  her  into  life, 
when  his  own  vitality  was  being  each  moment  sucked 
from  him  by  the  icy  breath  of  the  storm.  Here  and 
there  a  terrible  wailing  minor  key  would  tremble  through 
the  chords  like  the  shriek  of  sea-birds,  or  the  warning 
of  advancing  death.  While  the  man  played  I  could 
scarce  restrain  myself.  It  seemed  to  be  Blokeeta  whom 
I  listened  to,  and  on  whom  I  gazed.  That  wondrous 
night  of  pleasure  and  pain  that  I  had  once  passed  listen- 
ing to  him  seemed  to  have  been  taken  up  again  at  the 
spot  where  it  had  broken  off,  and  the  same  hand  was  con- 
tinuing it.  I  stared  at  the  man  called  Alf.  There  he 
sat  with  his  cloak  and  doublet,  and  long  rapier  and  mask 
of  black  velvet.  But  there  was  something  in  the  air  of 
the  peaked  beard,  a  familiar  mystery  in  the  wild  mass  of 
raven  hair  that  fell  as  if  wind-blown  over  his  shoulders, 
which  riveted  my  memory. 

"  Blokeeta  !  Blokeeta  !  "  I  shouted,  starting  up  furiously 
from  the  couch  on  which  I  was  lying,  and  bursting  the 
fair  arms  that  were  linked  around  my  neck  as  if  they  had 
been  hateful  chains,  —  "  Blokeeta  !  my  friend  !  speak  to 
me,  I  entreat  you  !  Tell  these  horrid  enchanters  to  leave 
me.  Say  that  I  hate  them.  Say  that  I  command  them 
to  leave  my  room." 

The  man  at  the  organ  stirred  not  in  answer  to  my  ap- 
peal. He  ceased  playing,  and  the  dying  sound  of  the  last 
note  he  had  touched  faded  off  into  a  melancholy  moan. 
The  other  men  and  the  women  burst  once  more  into  peals 
of  mocking  laughter. 


328  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

"Why  will  you  persist  in  calling  this  your  room?"  said 
the  woman  next  me,  with  a  smile  meant  to  be  kind,  but 
to  me  inexpressibly  loathsome.  "Have  we  not  shown 
you  by  the  furniture,  by  the  general  appearance  of  the 
place,  that  you  are  mistaken,  and  that  this  cannot  be 
your  apartment  1  Rest  content,  then,  with  us.  You  are 
welcome  here,  and  need  no  longer  trouble  yourself  about 
your  room." 

"  Rest  content !"  I  answered,  madly  ;  "  live  with  ghosts! 
eat  of  awful  meats,  and  see  awful  sights  !  Never,  never  ! 
You  have  cast  some  enchantment  over  the  place  that  has 
disguised  it ;  but  for  all  that  I  know  it  to  be  my  room. 
You  shall  leave  it ! " 

"  Softly,  softly  ! "  said  another  of  the  sirens.  "  Let  us 
settle  this  amicably.  This  poor  gentleman  seems  obsti- 
nate and  inclined  to  make  an  uproar.  Now  we  do  not 
want  an  uproar.  We  love  the  night  and  its  quiet ;  and 
there  is  no  night  that  we  love  so  well  as  that  on  which  the 
moon  is  coffined  in  clouds.  Is  it  not  so,  my  brothers?" 

An  awful  and  sinister  smile  gleamed  on  the  counte- 
nances of  her  unearthly  audience,  and  seemed  to  glide 
visibly  from  underneath  their  masks. 

"  Now,"  she  continued,  "  I  have  a  proposition  to  make. 
It  would  be  ridiculous  for  us  to  surrender  this  room  sim- 
ply because  this  gentleman  states  that  it  is  his ;  and  yet 
I  feel  anxious  to  gratify,  as  far  as  may  be  fair,  his  wild 
assertion  of  ownership.  A  room,  after  all,  is  not  much 
to  us ;  we  can  get  one  easily  enough,  but  still  we  should 
be  loath  to  give  this  apartment  up  to  so  imperious  a  de- 
mand. We  are  willing,  however,  to  risk  its  loss.  That 
is  to  say,"  —  turning  to  me,  —  "I  propose  that  we  play 
for  the  room.  If  you  win,  we  will  immediately  surren- 
der it  to  you  just  as  it  stands ;  if,  on  the  contrary,  you 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  329 

lose,  you  shall  bind  yourself  to  depart  and  never  molest 
us  again." 

Agonized  at  the  ever-darkening  mysteries  that  seemed 
to  thicken  around  me,  and  despairing  of  being  able  to  dis- 
sipate them  by  the  mere  exercise  of  my  own  will,  I  caught 
almost  gladly  at  the  chance  thus  presented  to  me.  The 
idea  of  my  loss  or  my  gain  scarce  entered  into  my  calcu- 
lations. All  I  felt  was  an  indefinite  knowledge  that  I 
might,  in  the  way  proposed,  regain,  in  an  instant,  that 
quiet  chamber  and  that  peace  of  mind  of  which  I  had 
so  strangely  been  deprived. 

"  I  agree  !  "  I  cried,  eagerly ;  "  I  agree.  Anything  to 
rid  myself  of  such  unearthly  company ! " 

The  woman  touched  a  small  golden  bell  that  stood  near 
her  on  the  table,  and  it  had  scarce  ceased  to  tinkle  when 
a  negro  dwarf  entered  with  a  silver  tray  on  which  were 
dice-boxes  and  dice.  A  shudder  passed  over  me  as  I 
thought  in  this  stunted  African  I  could  trace  a  resem- 
blance to  the  ghoul-like  black  servant  to  whose  attendance 
I  had  been  accustomed. 

"  Now,"  said  my  neighbor,  seizing  one  of  the  dice-boxes 
and  giving  me  the  other,  "the  highest  wins.  Shall  I 
throw  first?" 

I  nodded  assent.  She  rattled  the  dice,  and  I  felt  an 
inexpressible  load  lifted  from  my  heart  as  she  threw  fif- 
teen. 

"  It  is  your  turn,"  she  said,  with  a  mocking  smile  ;  "but 
before  you  throw,  I  repeat  the  offer  I  made  you  before. 
Live  with  us.  Be  one  of  us.  We  will  initiate  you  into 
our  mysteries  and  enjoyments,  —  enjoyments  of  which 
you  can  form  no  idea  unless  you  experience  them.  Come; 
it  is  not  too  late  yet  to  change  your  mind.  Be  with 


330  THE  LOST  ROOM. 

My  reply  was  a  fierce  oath,  as  I  rattled  the  dice  with 
spasmodic  nervousness  and  flung  them  on  the  board. 
They  rolled  over  and  over  again,  and  during  that  brief 
instant  I  felt  a  suspense,  the  intensity  of  which  I  have 
never  known  before  or  since.  At  last  they  lay  before  me. 
A  shout  of  the  same  horrible,  maddening  laughter  rang 
in  my  ears.  I  peered  in  vain  at  the  dice,  but  my  sight 
was  so  confused  that  I  could  not  distinguish  the  amount 
of  the  cast.  This  lasted  for  a  few  moments.  Then  my 
sight  grew  clear,  and  I  sank  back  almost  lifeless  with  de- 
spair as  I  saw  that  I  had  thrown  but  twelve! 

"  Lost !  lost ! "  screamed  my  neighbor,  with  a  wild 
laugh.  "  Lost !  lost !  "  shouted  the  deep  voices  of  the 
masked  men.  "  Leave  us,  coward  ! "  they  all  cried  ;  "you 
are  not  fit  to  be  one  of  us.  Remember  your  promise ; 
leave  us !  " 

Then  it  seemed  as  if  some  unseen  power  caught  me  by 
the  shoulders  and  thrust  me  toward  the  door.  In  vain  I 
resisted.  In  vain  I  screamed  and  shouted  for  help.  In 
vain  I  implored  them  for  pity.  All  the  reply  I  had  was 
those  mocking  peals  of  merriment,  while,  under  the  in- 
visible influence,  I  staggered  like  a  drunken  man  toward 
the  door.  As  I  reached  the  threshold  the  organ  pealed 
out  a  wild,  triumphal  strain.  The  power  that  impelled 
me  concentrated  itself  into  one  vigorous  impulse  that 
sent  me  blindly  staggering  out  into  the  echoing  corridor, 
and,  as  the  door  closed  swiftly  behind  me,  I  caught  one 
glimpse  of  the  apartment  I  had  left  forever.  A  change 
passed  like  a  shadow  over  it.  The  lamps  died  out,  the 
siren  women  and  masked  men  vanished,  the  flowers,  the 
fruits,  the  bright  silver  and  bizarre  furniture  faded  swiftly, 
and  I  saw  again,  for  the  tenth  of  a  second,  my  own  old 
chamber  restored.  There  was  the  acacia  waving  darkly ; 


THE  LOST  ROOM.  331 

there  was  the  table  littered  with  books ;  there  was  the 
ghostly  lithograph,  the  dearly  beloved  smoking-cap,  the 
Canadian  snow-shoes,  the  ancestral  dagger.  And  there, 
at  the  piano,  organ  no  longer,  sat  Blokeeta  playing. 

The  next  instant  the  door  closed  violently,  and  I  was 
left  standing  in  the  corridor  stunned  and  despairing. 

As  soon  as  I  had  partially  recovered  my  comprehension 
I  rushed  madly  to  the  door,  with  the  dim  idea  of  beating 
it  in.  My  fingers  touched  a  cold  and  solid  wall.  There 
was  no  door !  I  felt  all  along  the  corridor  for  many 
yards  on  both  sides.  There  was  not  even  a  crevice  to 
give  me  hope.  I  rushed  down  stairs  shouting  madly. 
No  one  answered.  In  the  vestibule  I  met  the  negro ;  I 
seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  demanded  my  room.  The 
demon  showed  his  white  and  awful  teeth,  which  were  filed 
into  a  saw-like  shape,  and,  extricating  himself  from  my 
grasp  with  a  sudden  jerk,  fled  down  .the  passage  with  a 
gibbering  laugh.  Nothing  but  echo  answered  to  my  de- 
spairing shrieks.  The  lonely  garden  resounded  with  my 
cries  as  I  strode  madly  through  the  dark  walks,  and  the 
tall  funereal  cypresses  seemed  to  bury  me  beneath  their 
heavy  shadows.  I  met  no  one,  —  could  find  no  one.  I 
had  to  bear  my  sorrow  and  despair  alone. 

Since  that  awful  hour  I  have  never  found  my  room. 
Everywhere  I  look  for  it,  yet  never  see  it.  Shall  I  ever 
find  it? 


332  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 


THE  POT   OF  TULIPS. 


TWENTY-EIGHT  years  ago  I  went  to  spend  the  summer 
at  an  old  Dutch  villa  which  then  lifted  its  head  from  the 
wild  country  that,  in  present  days,  has  been  tamed  down 
into  a  site  for  a  Crystal  Palace.  Madison  Square  was 
then  a  wilderness  of  fields  and  scrub  oak,  here  and  there 
diversified  with  tall  and  stately  elms.  Worthy  citizens 
who  could  afford  two  establishments  rusticated  in  the 
groves  that  then  flourished  where  ranks  of  brown-stone 
porticos  now  form  the  landscape ;  and  the  locality  of 
Fortieth  Street,  where  my  summer  palace  stood,  was 
justly  looked  upon  as  at  an  enterprising  distance  from 
the  city. 

I  had  an  imperious  desire  to  live  in  this  house  ever 
since  I  can  remember.  I  had  often  seen  it  when  a  boy, 
and  its  cool  verandas  and  quaint  garden  seemed,  when- 
ever I  passed,  to  attract  me  irresistibly.  In  after  years, 
when  I  grew  up  to  man's  estate,  I  was  not  sorry,  therefore, 
when  one  summer,  fatigued  with  the  labors  of  my  busi- 
ness, I  beheld  a  notice  in  the  papers  intimating  that  it 
was  to  be  let  furnished.  I  hastened  to  my  dear  friend, 
Jaspar  Joye,  painted  the  delights  of  this  rural  retreat  in 
the  most  glowing  colors,  easily  obtained  his  assent  to 
share  the  enjoyments  and  the  expense  with  me,  and  a 
month  afterward  we  were  taking  our  ease  in  this  new 
paradise. 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  333 

Independent  of  early  associations,  other  interests  at- 
tached me  to  this  house.  It  was  somewhat  historical, 
and  had  given  shelter  to  George  Washington  on  the  oc- 
casion of  one  of  his  visits  to  the  city.  Furthermore,  I 
knew  the  descendants  of  the  family  to  whom  it  had  origi- 
nally belonged.  Their  history  was  strange  and  mournful, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  their  individuality  was  some- 
how shared  by  the  edifice.  It  had  been  built  by  a  Mr. 
Van  Koeren,  a  gentleman  of  Holland,  the  younger  son  of 
a  rich  mercantile  firm  at  the  Hague,  who  had  emigrated 
to  this  country  in  order  to  establish  a  branch  of  his  fa- 
ther's business  in  New  York,  which  even  then  gave  indi- 
cations of  the  prosperity  it  has  since  reached  with  such 
marvellous  rapidity.  He  had  brought  with  him  a  fair 
young  Belgian  wife ;  a  loving  girl,  if  I  may  believe  her 
portrait,  with  soft  brown  eyes,  chestnut  hair,  and  a  deep, 
placid  contentment  spreading  over  her  fresh  and  innocent 
features.  Her  son,  Alain  Van  Koeren,  had  her  picture 
—  an  old  miniature  in  a  red  gold  frame  —  as  well  as  that 
of  his  father  \  and  in  truth,  when  looking  on  the  two,  one 
could  not  conceive  a  greater  contrast  than  must  have  ex- 
isted between  husband  and  wife.  Mr.  Van  Koeren  must 
have  been  a  man  of  terrible  will  and  gloomy  tempera- 
ment. His  face  —  in  the  picture  —  is  dark  and  austere, 
his  eyes  deep-sunken,  and  burning  as  if  with  a  slow,  in- 
ward fire.  The  lips  are  thin  and  compressed,  with  much 
determination  of  purpose ;  and  his  chin,  boldly  salient,  is 
brimful  of  power  and  resolution.  When  first  I  saw  those 
two  pictures  I  sighed  inwardly  and  thought,  "  Poor  child  ! 
you  must  often  have  sighed  for  the  sunny  meadows  of 
Brussels,  in  the  long,  gloomy  nights  spent  in  the  company 
of  that  terrible  man  !  " 

I  was  not  far  wrong,  as  I  afterward  discovered.     Mr. 


334  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

and  Mrs.  Van  Koeren  were  very  unhappy.  Jealousy  was 
his  monomania,  and  he  had  scarcely  been  married  before 
his  girl-wife  began  to  feel  the  oppression  of  a  gloomy  and 
ceaseless  tyranny.  Every  man  under  fifty,  whose  hair 
was  not  white  and  whose  form  was  erect,  was  an  object  of 
suspicion  to  this  Dutch  Bluebeard.  Not  that  he  was  vul- 
garly jealous.  He  did  not  frown  at  his  wife  before  stran- 
gers, or  attack  her  with  reproaches  in  the  midst  of  her 
festivities.  He  was  too  well-bred  a  man  to  bare  his  pri- 
vate woes  to  the  world.  But  at  night,  when  the  guests 
had  departed  and  the  dull  light  of  the  quaint  old  Flemish 
lamps  but  half  illuminated  the  nuptial  chamber,  then  it 
was  that  with  monotonous  invective  Mr.  Van  Koeren 
crushed  his  wife.  And  Marie,  weeping  and  silent,  would 
sit  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  listening  to  the  cold,  trenchant 
irony  of  her  husband,  who,  pacing  up  and  down  the  room, 
would  now  and  then  stop  in  his  walk  to  gaze  with  his 
burning  eyes  upon  the  pallid  face  of  his  victim.  Even 
the  evidences  that  Marie  gave  of  becoming  a  mother  did 
not  check  him.  He  saw  in  that  coming  event,  which  most 
husbands  anticipate  with  mingled  joy  and  fear,  only  an 
approaching  incarnation  of  his  dishonor.  He  watched 
with  a  horrible  refinement  of  suspicion  for  the  arrival  of 
that  being  in  whose  features  he  madly  believed  he  should 
but  too  surely  trace  the  evidences  of  his  wife's  crime. 

Whether  it  was  that  these  ceaseless  attacks  wore  out 
her  strength,  or  that  Providence  wished  to  add  another 
chastening  misery  to  her  burden  of  woe,  I  dare  not  spec- 
ulate ;  but  it  is  certain  that  one  luckless  night  Mr.  Van 
Koeren  learned  with  fury  that  he  had  become  a  father 
two  months  before  the  allotted  time.  During  his  first 
paroxysm  of  rage,  on  the  receipt  of  intelligence  which 
seemed  to  confirm  all  his  previous  suspicions,  it  was,  I 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  335 

believe,  with  difficulty  that  he  was  prevented  from  slaying 
both  the  innocent  causes  of  his  resentment.  The  caution 
of  his  race  and  the  presence  of  the  physicians  induced  him, 
however,  to  put  a  curb  upon  his  furious  will  until  reflec- 
tion suggested  quite  as  criminal,  if  not  as  dangerous,  a 
vengeance.  As  soon  as  his  poor  wife  had  recovered  from 
her  illness,  unnaturally  prolonged  by  the  delicacy  of  con- 
stitution induced  by  previous  mental  suffering,  she  was 
astonished  to  find,  instead  of  increasing  his  persecutions, 
that  her  husband  had  changed  his  tactics  and  treated  her 
with  studied  neglect.  He  rarely  spoke  to  her  except  on 
occasions  when  the  decencies  of  society  demanded  that  he 
should  address  her.  He  avoided  her  presence,  and  no 
longer  inhabited  the  same  apartments.  He  seemed,  in 
short,  to  strive  as  much  as  possible  to  forget  her  existence. 
But  if  she  did  not  suffer  from  personal  ill-treatment  it  was 
because  a  punishment  more  acute  was  in  store  for  her.  If 
Mr.  Van  Koeren  had  chosen  to  affect  to  consider  her  be- 
neath his  vengeance,  it  was  because  his  hate  had  taken 
another  direction,  and  seemed  to  have  derived  increased 
intensity  from  the  alteration.  It  was  upon  the  unhappy 
boy,  the  cause  of  all  this  misery,  that  the  father  lavished 
a  terrible  hatred.  Mr.  Van  Koeren  seemed  determined, 
that,  if  this  child  sprang  from  other  loins  than  his,  the 
mournful  destiny  which  he  forced  upon  him  should  am- 
ply avenge  his  own  existence  and  the  infidelity  of  his 
mother.  While  the  child  was  an  infant  his  plan  seemed 
to  have  been  formed.  Ignorance  and  neglect  were  the 
two  deadly  influences  with  which  he  sought  to  assassinate 
the  moral  nature  of  this  boy  ;  and  his  terrible  campaign 
against  the  virtue  of  his  own  son  was,  as  he  grew  up,  car- 
ried into  execution  with  the  most  consummate  generalship. 
He  gave  him  money,  but  debarred  him  from  education. 


336  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

He  allowed  him  liberty  of  action,  but  withheld  advice.  It 
was  in  vain  that  his  mother,  who  foresaw  the  frightful 
consequences  of  such  a  training,  sought  in  secret  by  every 
means  in  her  power  to  nullify  her  husband's  attempts. 
She  strove  in  vain  to  seduce  her  son  into  an  ambition  to 
be  educated.  She  beheld  with  horror  all  her  agonized 
efforts  frustrated,  and  saw  her  son  and  only  child  becom- 
ing, even  in  his  youth,  a  drunkard  and  a  libertine.  In 
the  end  it  proved  too  much  for  her  strength ;  she  sick- 
ened, and  went  home  to  her  sunny  Belgian  plains.  There 
she  lingered  for  a  few  months  in  a  calm  but  rapid  decay, 
whose  calmness  was  broken  but  by  the  one  grief;  until 
one  autumn  day,  when  the  leaves  were  falling  from  the 
limes,  she  made  a  little  prayer  for  her  son  to  the  good  God, 
and  died.  Vain  orison  !  Spendthrift,  gamester,  libertine, 
and  drunkard  by  turns,  Alain  Van  Koeren's  earthly  des- 
tiny was  unchangeable.  The  father,  who  should  have 
been  his  guide,  looked  on  each  fresh  depravity  of  his  son's 
•with  a  species  of  grim  delight.  Even  the  death  of  his 
wronged  wife  had  no  effect  upon  his  fatal  purpose.  He 
still  permitted  the  young  man  to  run  blindly  to  destruc- 
tion by  the  course  into  which  he  himself  had  led  him. 

As  years  rolled  by,  and  Mr.  Van  Koeren  himself  ap- 
proached to  that  time  of  life  when  he  might  soon  expect 
to  follow  his  persecuted  wife,  he  relieved  himself  of  the 
hateful  presence  of  his  son  altogether.  Even  the  link  of 
a  systematic  vengeance,  which  had  hitherto  united  them, 
•was  severed,  and  Alain  was  cast  adrift  without  either 
money  or  principle.  The  occasion  of  this  final  separation 
between  father  and  son  was  the  marriage  of  the  latter 
with  a  girl  of  humble,  though  honest  extraction.  This 
was  a  good  excuse  for  the  remorseless  Van  Koeren,  so  he 
availed  himself  of  it  by  turning  his  son  out  of  doors. 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  337 

From  that  time  forth  they  never  met.  Alain  lived  a  life 
of  meagre  dissipation,  and  soon  died,  leaving  behind  him 
one  child,  a  daughter.  By  a  coincidence  natural  enough, 
Mr.  Van  Koeren's  death  followed  his  son's  almost  imme- 
diately. He  died  as  he  had  lived,  sternly.  But  those 
who  were  around  his  couch  in  his  last  moments  men- 
tioned some  singular  facts  connected  with  the  manner  of 
his  death.  A  few  moments  before  he  expired,  he  raised 
himself  in  the  bed,  and  seemed  as  if  conversing  with  some 
person  invisible  to  the  spectators.  His  lips  moved  as  if 
in  speech,  and  immediately  afterward  he  sank  back,  bathed 
in  a  flood  of  tears.  "  Wrong  !  wrong  !  "  he  was  heard  to 
mutter,  feebly ;  then  he  implored  passionately  the  forgive- 
ness of  some  one  who,  he  said,  was  present.  The  death 
struggle  ensued  almost  immediately,  and  in  the  midst  of 
his  agony  he  seemed  wrestling  for  speech.  All  that  could 
be  heard,  however,  were  a  few  broken  words.  "  I  was 
wrong.  My  —  unfounded  —  For  God's  sake  look  in  — 
You  will  find  — "  Having  uttered  these  fragmentary 
sentences,  he  seemed  to  feel  that  the  power  of  speech  had 
passed  away  forever.  He  fixed  his  eyes  piteously  on  those 
around  him,  and,  with  a  great  sigh  of  grief,  expired.  I 
gathered  these  facts  from  his  granddaughter  and  Alain's 
daughter,  Alice  Van  Koeren,  who  had  been  summoned  by 
some  friend  to  her  grandfather's  dying  couch  when  it  was 
too  late.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  him,  and 
then  she  saw  him  die. 

The  results  of  Mr.  Van  Koeren's  death  were  a  nine 
days'  wonder  to  all  the  merchants  in  New  York.  Beyond 
a  small  sum  in  the  bank,  and  the  house  in  which  he  lived, 
which  was  mortgaged  for  its  full  value,  Mr.  Van  Koeren 
had  died  a  pauper !  To  those  who  knew  him  and  knew 
his  affairs,  this  seemed  inexplicable.  Five  or  six  years 

22 


338  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

before  his  death  he  had  retired  from  business  with  a  for- 
tune of  several  hundred  thousand  dollars.  He  had  lived 
quietly  since  then,  —  was  known  not  to  have  speculated, 
and  could  not  have  gambled.  The  question  then  was, 
where  had  his  wealth  vanished  to.  Search  was  made  in 
every  secretary,  in  every  bureau,  for  some  document 
which  might  throw  a  light  on  the  mysterious  disposition 
that  he  had  made  of  his  property.  None  was  found. 
Neither  will,  nor  certificates  of  stock,  nor  title  deeds,  nor 
bank  accounts,  were  anywhere  discernible.  Inquiries  were 
made  at  the  .offices  of  companies  in  which  Mr.  Van  Koeren 
was  known  to  be  largely  interested ;  he  had  sold  out  his 
stock  years  ago.  Real  estate  that  had  been  believed  to 
be  his  was  found  on  investigation  to  have  passed  into 
other  hands.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  for  some 
years  past  Mr.  Van  Koeren  had  been  steadily  converting  all 
his  property  into  money,  and  what  he  had  done  with  that 
money  no  one  knew.  Alice  Van  Koeren  and  her  mother, 
who  at  the  old  gentleman's  death  were  at  first  looked  on 
as  millionnaires,  discovered,  when  all  was  over,  that  they 
were  no  better  off  than  before.  It  was  evident  that  the 
old  man,  determined  that  one  whom,  though  bearing  his 
name,  he  believed  not  to  be  of  his  blood,  should  never  in- 
herit his  wealth  or  any  share  of  it,  had  made  away  with 
his  fortune  before  his  death,  —  a  posthumous  vengeance 
which  was  the  only  one  by  which  the  laws  of  the  State  of 
New  York  relative  to  inheritance  could  be  successfully 
evaded. 

I  took  a  peculiar  interest  in  the  case,  and  even  helped 
to  make  some  researches  for  the  lost  property,  not  so 
much,  I  confess,  from  a  spirit  of  general  philanthropy,  as 
from  certain  feelings  which  I  experienced  toward  Alice 
Van  Koeren,  the  heir  to  this  invisible  estate.  I  had  long 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  339 

known  both  her  and  her  mother,  when  they  were  living 
in  honest  poverty  and  earning  a  scanty  subsistence  by 
their  own  labor;  Mrs.  Van  Koeren  working  as  an  em- 
broideress,  and  Alice  turning  to  account,  as  a  preparatory 
governess,  the  education  which  her  good  mother,  spite  of 
her  limited  means,  had  bestowed  on  her. 

In  a  few  words,  then,  I  loved  Alice  Van  Koeren,  and 
was  determined  to  make  her  my  wife  as  soon  as  my  means 
would  allow  me  to  support  a  fitting  establishment.  My 
passion  had  never  been  declared.  I  was  content  for  the 
time  with  the  secret  consciousness  of  my  own  love,  and 
the  no  less  grateful  certainty  that  Alice  returned  it,  all 
unuttered  as  it  was.  I  had,  therefore,  a  double  interest 
in  passing  the  summer  at  the  old  Dutch  villa,  for  I  felt  it 
to  be  connected  somehow  with  Alice,  and  I  could  not  for- 
get the  singular  desire  to  iuhabit  it  which  I  had  so  often 
experienced  as  a  boy. 

It  was  a  lovely  day  in  June  when  Jasper  Joye  and  my- 
self took  up  our  abode  in  our  new  residence ;  and  as  we 
smoked  our  cigars  on  the  piazza  in  the  evening  we  felt 
for  the  first  time  the  unalloyed  pleasure  with  which  a 
townsman  breathes  the  puie  air  of  the  country. 

The  house  and  grounds  had  a  quaint  sort  of  beauty 
that  to  me  was  eminently  pleasing.  Landscape  garden- 
ing, in  the  modern  acceptation  of  the  term,  was  then 
almost  unknown  in  this  country,  and  the  "  laying  out  "  of 
the  garden  that  surrounded  our  new  home  would  doubt- 
less have  shocked  Mr.  London,  the  late  Mr.  Downing,  or 
Sir  Thomas  Dick  Lauder.  It  was  formal  and  artificial  to 
the  last  degree.  The  beds  were  cut  into  long  parallelo- 
grams, rigid  and  severe  of  aspect,  and  edged  with  prim 
rows  of  stiff  dwarf  box.  The  walks,  of  course,  crossed  al- 
ways at  right  angles,  and  the  laurel  and  cypress  trees  that 


340  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

grew  here  and  there  were  clipped  into  cones,  and  spheres, 
and  rhomboids.  It  is  true  that,  at  the  time  my  friend 
and  I  hired  the  house,  years  of  neglect  had  restored  to 
this  formal  garden  somewhat  of  the  raggedness  of  nature. 
The  box  edgings  were  rank  and  wild.  The  clipped  trees, 
forgetful  of  geometric  propriety,  flourished  into  unauthor- 
ized boughs  and  rebel  offshoots.  The  walks  were  green 
with  moss,  and  the  beds  of  Dutch  tulips,  which  had  been 
planted  in  the  shape  of  certain  gorgeous  birds,  whose 
colors  were  represented  by  masses  of  blossoms,  each  of  a 
single  hue,  had  transgressed  their  limits,  and  the  purple  of 
a  parrot's  wings  might  have  been  seen  running  recklessly 
into  the  crimson  of  his  head ;  while,  as  bulbs,  however 
well-bred,  will  create  other  bulbs,  the  flower-birds  of  this 
queer  old  Dutch  garden  became  in  time  abominably  dis- 
torted in  shape ;  —  flamingoes  with  humps,  golden  pheas- 
ants with  legs  preternaturally  elongated,  macaws  afflicted 
with  hydrocephalus,  —  each  species  of  deformity  being 
proportioned  to  the  rapidity  with  which  the  roots  had 
spread  in  some  particular  direction.  Still,  this  strange 
mixture  of  raggedness  and  formality,  this  conglomerate 
of  nature  and  art,  had  its  charms.  It  was  pleasant  to 
watch  the  struggle,  as  it  were,  between  the  opposing  ele- 
ments, and  to  see  nature  triumphing  by  degrees  in  every 
direction. 

The  house  itself  was  pleasant  and  commodious.  Rooms 
that,  though  not  lofty,  were  spacious  ;  wide  windows,  and 
cool  piazzas  extending  over  the  four  sides  of  the  build- 
ing; and  a  collection  of  antique  carved  furniture,  some 
of  which,  from  its  elaborateness,  might  well  have  come 
from  the  chisel  of  Master  Grinling  Gibbons.  There  was 
a  mantel-piece  in  the  dining-room,  with  which  I  remem- 
ber being  very  much  struck  when  first  I  came  to  take 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  341 

possession.  It  was  a  singular  and  fantastical  piece  of 
carving.  It  was  a  perfect  tropical  garden,  menagerie, 
and  aviary,  in  one.  Birds,  beasts,  and  flowers  were  sculp- 
tured on  the  wood  with  exquisite  correctness  of  detail, 
and  painted  with  the  hues  of  nature.  The  Dutch  taste  for 
color  was  here  fully  gratified.  Parrots,  love-birds,  scar- 
let lories,  blue-faced  baboons,  crocodiles,  passion-flowers, 
tigers,  Egyptian  lilies,  and  Brazilian  butterflies,  were  all 
mixed  in  gorgeous  confusion.  The  artist,  whoever  he 
was,  must  have  been  an  admirable  naturalist,  for  the 
ease  and  freedom  of  his  carving  were  only  equalled  by 
the  wonderful  accuracy  with  which  the  different  animals 
were  represented.  Altogether  it  was  one  of  those  oddi- 
ties of  Dutch  conception,  whose  strangeness  was  in  this 
instance  redeemed  by  the  excellence  of  the  execution. 

Such  was  the  establishment  that  Jasper  Joye  and  my- 
self were  to  inhabit  for  the  summer  months. 

"  What  a  strange  thing  it  was,"  said  Jasper,  as  we 
lounged  on  the  piazza  together  the  night  of  our  arrival, 
"that  old  Van  Koeren's  property  should  never  have 
turned  up!" 

"It  is  a  question  with  some  people  whether  he  had 
any  at  his  death,"  I  answered. 

"  Pshaw !  every  one  knows  that  he  did  not  or  could 
not  have  lost  that  with  which  he  retired  from  business." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  I,  thoughtfully ;  "  yet  every  possi- 
ble search  has  been  made  for  documents  that  might  throw 
light  on  the  mystery.  I  have  myself  sought  in  every 
quarter  for  traces  of  this  lost  wealth,  but  in  vain." 

"  Perhaps  he  buried  it,'*  suggested  Jasper,  laughing ;  "  if 
so,  we  may  find  it  here  in  a  hole  one  fine  morning." 

"  I  think  it  much  more  likely  that  he  destroyed  it,"  I 
replied.  "You  know  he  never  could  be  got  to  believe 


342  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

that  Alain  Van  Koeren  was  his  son,  and  I  believe  him 
quite  capable  of  having  flung  all  his  money  into  the  sea 
in  order  to  prevent  those  whom  he  considered  not  of  his 
blood  inheriting  it,  which  they  must  have  done  under  our 
laws." 

"  I  am  sorry  that  Alice  did  not  become  an  heiress,  both 
for  your  sake  and  hers.  She  is  a  charming  girl." 

Jasper,  from  whom  I  concealed  nothing,  knew  of  my 
love. 

'.'As  to  that,"  I  answered,  "it  is  little  matter.  I  shall 
in  a  year  or  two  be  independent  enough  to  marry,  and 
can  afford  to  let  Mr.  Van  Koeren's  cherished  gold  sleep 
wherever  he  has  concealed  it." 

"  Well,  I  'm  off  to  bed,"  said  Jasper,  yawning.  "  This 
country  air  makes  one  sleepy  early.  Be  on  the  lookout 
for  trap-doors  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  old  fellow. 
Who  knows  but  the  old  chap's  dollars  will  turn  up. 
Good  night !  "* 

"  Good  night,  Jasper !  " 

So  we  parted  for  the  night.  He  to  his  room,  which  lay 
on  the  west  side  of  the  building ;  I  to  mine  on  the  east, 
situated  at  the  end  of  a  long  corridor  and  exactly  opposite 
to  Jasper's. 

The  night  was  very  still  and  warm.  The  clearness 
with  which  I  heard  the  song  of  the  katydid  and  the 
croak  of  the  bull-frog  seemed  to  make  the  silence  more 
distinct.  The  air  was  dense  and  breathless,  and,  although 
longing  to  throw  wide  my  windows,  I  dared  not ;  for,  out- 
side, the  ominous  trumpetings  of  an  army  of  mosquitoes 
sounded  threateningly. 

I  tossed  on  my  bed  oppressed  with  the  heat ;  kicked 
the  sheets  into  every  spot  where  they  ought  not  to  be ; 
turned  my  pillow  every  two  minutes  in  the  hope  of  find- 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  343 

ing  a  cool  side ;  —  in  short,  did  everything  that  a  man 
does  when  he  lies  awake  on  a  very  hot  night  and  cannot 
open  his  window. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  my  miseries,  and  when  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  fling  open  the  casement  in  spite  of 
the  legion  of  mosquitoes  that  I  knew  were  hungrily  wait- 
ing outside,  I  felt  a  continuous  stream  of  cold  air  blowing 
upon  my  face.  Luxurious  as  the  sensation  was,  I  could 
not  help  starting  as  I  felt  it.  Where  could  this  draught 
come  from  ]  The  door  was  closed  ;  so  were  the  windows. 
It  did  not  come  from  the  direction  of  the  fireplace,  and, 
even  if  it  did,  the  air  without  was  too  still  to  produce  so 
strong  a  current.  I  rose  in  my  bed  and  gazed  round  the 
room,  the  whole  of  which,  though  only  lit  by  a  dim 
twilight,  was  still  sufficiently  visible.  I  thought  at  first 
it  was  a  trick  of  Jasper's,  who  might  have  provided  him- 
self with  a  bellows  or  a  long  tube ;  but  a  careful  inves- 
tigation of  the  apartment  convinced  me  that  no  one  was 
present.  Besides,  I  had  locked  the  door,  and  it  was  not 
likely  that  any  one  had  been  concealed  in  the  room  be- 
fore I  entered  it.  It  was  exceedingly  strange ;  but  still 
the  draught  of  cool  wind  blew  on  my  face  and  chest, 
every  now  and  then  changing  its  direction,  —  sometimes 
on  one  side,  sometimes  on  the  other.  I  am  not  consti- 
tutionally nervous,  and  had  been  too  long  accustomed 
to  reflect  on  philosophical  subjects  to  become  the  prey 
of  fear  in  the  presence  of  mysterious  phenomena.  I  had 
devoted  much  time  to  the  investigation  of  what  are  popu- 
larly called  supernatural  matters,  by  those  who  have  not 
reflected  or  examined  sufficiently  to  discover  that  none 
of  these  apparent  miracles  are  sw/?er-natural,  but  all,  how- 
ever singular,  directly  dependent  on  certain  natural  laws. 
I  became  speedily  convinced,  therefore,  as  I  sat  up  in  my 


344  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

bed  peering  into  the  dim  recesses  of  my  chamber,  that 
this  mysterious  wind  was  the  effect  or  forerunner  of  a 
supernatural  visitation,  and  I  mentally  determined  to  in- 
vestigate it,  as  it  developed  itself,  with  a  philosophical 
calmness. 

"  Is  any  one  in  this  room  ? v  I  asked,  as  distinctly  as  I 
could.  No  reply;  while  the  cool  wind  still  swept  over 
my  cheek.  I  knew,  in  the  case  of  Elizabeth  Eslinger, 
who  was  visited  by  an  apparition  while  in  the  Weinsberg 
jail,  and  whose  singular  and  apparently  authentic  experi- 
ences were  made  the  subject  of  a  book  by  Dr.  Kerner, 
that  the  manifestation  of  the  spirit  was  invariably  accom- 
panied by  such  a  breezy  sensation  as  I  now  experienced. 
I  therefore  gathered  my  will,  as  it  were,  into  a  focus,  and 
endeavored,  as  much  as  lay  in  my  power,  to  put  myself 
in  accord  with  the  disembodied  spirit,  if  such  there  were, 
knowing  that  on  such  conditions  alone  would  it  be  enabled 
to  manifest  itself  to  me. 

Presently  it  seemed  as  if  a  luminous  cloud  was  gather- 
ing in  one  corner  of  the  room,  —  a  sort  of  dim  phos- 
phoric vapor,  shadowy  and  ill-defined.  It  changed  its  po- 
sition frequently,  sometimes  coming  nearer  and  at  others 
retreating  to  the  furthest  end  of  the  room.  As  it  grew 
intenser  and  more  radiant,  I  observed  a  sickening  and 
corpse-like  odor  diffuse  itself  through  the  chamber,  and, 
despite  my  anxiety  to  witness  this  phenomenon  undis- 
turbed, I  could  with  difficulty  conquer  a  feeling  of  faint- 
ness  which  oppressed  me. 

The  luminous  cloud  now  began  to  grow  brighter  and 
brighter  as  I  gazed.  The  horrible  odor  of  which  I  have 
spoken  did  not  cease  to  oppress  me,  and  gradually  I  could 
discover  certain  lines  making  themselves  visible  in  the 
midst  of  this  lambent  radiance.  These  lines  took  the 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  345 

form  of  a  human  figure,  —  a  tall  man,  clothed  in  a  long 
dressing-robe,  with  a  pale  countenance,  burning  eyes,  and 
a  very  bold  and  prominent  chin.  At  a  glance  I  recog- 
nized the  original  of  the  picture  of  old  Van  Koeren  that  I 
had  seen  with  Alice.  My  interest  was  now  aroused  to  the 
highest  point ;  I  felt  that  I  stood  face  to  face  with  a  spirit, 
and  doubted  not  that  I  should  learn  the  fate  of  the  old 
man's  mysteriously  concealed  wealth. 

The  spirit  presented  a  very  strange  appearance.  He 
himself  was  not  luminous,  except  some  tongues  of  fire 
that  seemed  to  proceed  from  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  but 
was  compleiely  surrounded  by  a  thin  gauze  of  light,  so  to 
speak,  through  which  his  outlines  were  visible.  His  head 
was  bare,  and  his  white  hair  fell  in  huge  masses  around 
his  stern,  saturnine  face.  As  he  moved  on  the  floor,  I 
distinctly  heard  a  strange  crackling  sound,  such  as  one 
hears  when  a  substance  has  been  overcharged  with  elec- 
tricity. But  the  circumstance  that  seemed  to  me  most 
incomprehensible  connected  with  the  apparition  was  that 
Yan  Koeren  held  in  both  hands  a  curiously  painted 
flower-pot,  out  of  which  sprang  a  number  of  the  most 
beautiful  tulips  in  full  blossom.  He  seemed  very  uneasy 
and  agitated,  and  moved  about  the  room  as  if  in  pain, 
frequently  bending  over  the  pot  of  tulips  as  if  to  inhale 
their  odor,  then  holding  it  out  to  me,  seemingly  in  the 
hope  of  attracting  my  attention  to  it.  I  was,  I  confess, 
very  much  puzzled.  I  knew  that  Mr.  Van  Koeren  had 
in  his  lifetime  devoted  much  of  his  leisure  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  flowers,  importing  from  Holland  the  most 
expensive  and  rarest  bulbs  ;  but  how  this  innocent  fancy 
could  trouble  him  after  death  I  could  not  imagine.  I 
felt  assured,  however,  that  some  important  reason  lay  at 
the  bottom  of  this  spectral  eccentricity,  and  determined 
to  fathom  it  if  I  could. 


346  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

"  What  brings  you  here  1 w  I  asked  audibly ;  directing 
mentally,  however,  at  the  same  time,  the  question  to  the 
spirit  with  all  the  power  of  my  will.  He  did  not  seem 
to  hear  me,  but  still  kept  moving  uneasily  about,  with 
the  crackling  noise  I  have  mentioned,  and  holding  the 
pot  of  tulips  toward  me. 

"  It  is  evident,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  that  I  am  not  suffi- 
ciently in  accord  with  this  spirit  for  him  to  make  himself 
understood  by  speech.  He  has,  therefore,  recourse  to 
symbols.  The  pot  of  tulips  is  a  symbol.  But  of  what  1 " 

Thus  reflecting  on  these  things  I  continued  to  gaze 
upon  the  spirit.  While  observing  him  attentively,  he 
approached  my  bedside  by  a  rapid  movement,  and  laid 
one  hand  on  my  arm.  The  touch  was  icy  cold,  and 
pained  me  at  the  moment.  Next  morning  my  arm  was 
swollen,  and  marked  with  a  round  blue  spot.  Then,  pass- 
ing to  my  bedroom-door,  the  spirit  opened  it  and  went 
out,  shutting  it  behind  him.  Catching  for  a  moment 
at  the  idea  that  I  was  the  dupe  of  a  trick,  I  jumped 
out  of  bed  and  ran  to  the  door.  It  was  locked  with  the 
key  on  the  inside,  and  a  brass  safety-bolt,  which  lay  above 
the  lock,  shot  safely  home.  All  was  as  I  had  left  it  on 
going  to  bed.  Yet  I  declare  most  solemnly,  that,  as  the 
ghost  made  his  exit,  I  not  only  saw  the  door  open,  but  / 
saw  the  corridor  outside,  and  distinctly  observed  a  large  pic- 
ture of  William  of  Orange  that  hung  just  opposite  to  my  room. 
This  to  me  was  the  most  curious  portion  of  the  phenom- 
ena I  had  witnessed.  Either  the  door  had  been  opened  by 
the  ghost,  and  the  resistance  of  physical  obstacles  over- 
come in  some  amazing  manner,  —  because  in  this  case  the 
bolts  must  have  been  replaced  when  the  ghost  was  out- 
side the  door,  —  or  he  must  have  had  a  sufficient  mag- 
netic accord  with  my  mind  to  impress  upon  it  the  belief 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  347 

that  the  door  was  opened,  and  also  to  conjure  up  in  my 
brain  the  vision  of  the  corridor  and  the  picture,  features 
that  I  should  have  seen  if  the  door  had  been  opened  by 
any  ordinary  physical  agency. 

The  next  morning  at  breakfast  I  suppose  my  manner 
must  have  betrayed  me,  for  Jasper  said  to  me,  after  star- 
ing at  me  for  some  time,  "  Why,  Harry  Escott,  what 's  the 
matter  with  you  1  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost ! " 

"  So  I  have,  Jasper." 

Jasper,  of  course,  burst  into  laughter,  and  said  he  'd 
shave  my  head  and  give  me  a  shower-bath. 

"  Well,  you  may  laugh,"  I  answered ;  "  but  you  shall 
see  it  to-night,  Jasper." 

He  became  serious  in  a  moment,  —  I  suppose  there 
was  something  earnest  in  my  manner  that  convinced  him 
that  my  words  were  not  idle,  —  and  asked  me  to  explain. 
I  described  ray  interview  as  accurately  as  I  could. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  it  was  old  Van  Koeren  1 "  he 
asked. 

"  Because  I  have  seen  his  picture  a  hundred  times  with 
Alice,"  I  answered,  "  and  this  apparition  was  as  like  it  as 
it  was  possible  for  a  ghost  to  be  like  a  miniature." 

"  You  must  not  think  I  'm  laughing  at  you,  Harry,  he 
continued,  "  but  I  wish  you  would  answer  this.  We  have 
all  heard  of  ghosts,  —  ghosts  of  men,  women,  children, 
dogs,  horses,  in  fact  every  living  animal ;  but  hang  me 
if  ever  I  heard  of  the  ghost  of  a  flower-pot  before." 

"  My  dear  Jasper,  you  would  have  heard  of  such  things 
if  you  had  studied  such  branches  of  learning.  All  the 
phenomena  I  witnessed  last  night  are  supportable  by 
well-authenticated  facts.  The  cool  wind  has  attended  the 
appearance  of  more  than  one  ghost,  and  Baron  Reichen- 
bach  asserts  that  his  patients,  who  you  know  are  for  the 


348  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

most  part  sensitive  to  apparitions,  invariably  feel  this 
wind  when  a  magnet  is  brought  close  to  their  bodies. 
With  regard  to  the  flower-pot  about  which  you  make  so 
merry,  it  is  to  me  the  least  wonderful  portion  of  the  appa- 
rition. When  a  ghost  is  unable  to  find  a  person  of  suffi- 
cient receptivity,  in  order  to  communicate  with  him  by 
speech  it  is  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  symbols  to  ex- 
press its  wishes.  These  it  either  creates  by  some  mys- 
terious power  out  of  the  surrounding  atmosphere,  or  it 
impresses,  by  magnetic  force  on  the  mind  of  the  person 
it  visits,  the  form  of  the  symbol  it  is  anxious  to  have 
represented.  There  is  an  instance  mentioned  by  Jung 
Stilling  of  a  student  at  Brunswick,  who  appeared  to  a 
professor  of  his  college,  with  a  picture  in  his  hands,  which 
picture  had  a  hole  in  it  that  the  ghost  thrust  his  head 
through.  For  a  long  time  this  symbol  was  a  mystery ; 
but  the  student  was  persevering,  and  appeared  every 
night  with  his  head  through  the  picture,  until  at  last 
it  was  discovered  that,  before  he  died,  he  had  got  some 
painted  slides  for  a  magic  lantern  from  a  shopkeeper  in 
the  town,  which  had  not  been  paid  for  at  his  death  ;  and 
when  the  debt  had  been  discharged,  he  and  his  picture 
vanished  forevermore.  Now  here  was  a  symbol  distinctly 
bearing  on  the  question  at  issue.  This  poor  student  could 
find  no  better  way  of  expressing  his  uneasiness  at  the 
debt  for  the  painted  slides  than  by  thrusting  his  head 
through  a  picture.  How  he  conjured  up  the  picture  I 
cannot  pretend  to  explain,  but  that  it  was  used  as  a  sym- 
bol is  evident." 

"  Then  you  think  the  flower-pot  of  old  Van  Koeren  is 
a  symbol  1 " 

"  Most  assuredly,  the  pot  of  tulips  he  held  was  intended 
to  express  that  which  he  could  not  speak.  I  think  it 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  349 

must  have  had  some  reference  to  his  missing  property, 
and  it  is  our  business  to  discover  in  what  manner." 

"  Let  us  go  and  dig  up  all  the  tulip  beds,"  said  Jasper, 
"  who  knows  but  he  may  have  buried  his  money  in  one 
of  them  1 " 

I  grieve  to  say  that  I  assented  to  Jasper's  proposition, 
and  on  that  eventful  day  every  tulip  in  that  quaint  old 
garden  was  ruthlessly  uprooted.  The  gorgeous  macaws, 
and  ragged  parrots,  and  long-legged  pheasants,  so  cun- 
ningly formed  by  those  brilliant  flowers,  were  that  day 
exterminated.  Jasper  and  I  had  a  regular  battue  amidst 
this  floral  preserve,  and  many  a  splendid  bird  fell  before 
our  unerring  spades.  We,  however,  dug  in  vain.  No 
secret  coffer  turned  up  out  of  the  deep  mould  of  the 
flower-beds.  We  evidently  were  not  on  the  right  scent. 
Our  researches  for  that  day  terminated,  and  Jasper  and 
myself  waited  impatiently  for  the  night. 

It  was  arranged  that  Jasper  should  sleep  in  my  room. 
I  had  a  bed  rigged  up  for  him  near  my  own,  and  I  was  to 
have  the  additional  assistance  of  his  senses  in  the  inves- 
tigation of  the  phenomena  that  we  so  confidently  expected 
to  appear. 

The  night  came.  We  retired  to  our  respective  couches, 
after  carefully  bolting  the  doors,  and  subjecting  the  entire 
apartment  to  the  strictest  scrutiny,  rendering  it  totally 
impossible  that  a  secret  entrance  should  exist  unknown 
to  us.  We  then  put  out  the  lights,  and  awaited  the 
apparition. 

We  did  not  remain  in  suspense  long.  About  twenty 
minutes  after  we  retired  to  bed,  Jasper  called  out,  "  Har- 
ry, I  feel  the  cool  wind  !  " 

"  So  do  I,"  I  answered,  for  at  that  moment  a  light 
breeze  seemed  to  play  across  my  temples. 


350  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

"  Look,  look,  Harry  !  "  continued  Jasper  in  a  tone  of 
painful  eagerness,  "  I  see  a  light  —  there  in  the  corner ! " 

It  was  the  phantom.  As  before,  the  luminous  cloud 
appeared  to  gather  in  the  room,  growing  more  and  more 
intense  each  minute.  Presently  the  dark  lines  mapped 
themselves  out,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  this  pale,  radi- 
ant vapor,  and  there  stood  Mr.  Van  Koeren,  ghastly  and 
mournful  as  ever,  with  the  pot  of  tulips  in  his  hands. 

"  Do  you  see  it  V'  I  asked  Jasper. 

"  My  God !  yes,"  said  Jasper,  in  a  low  voice.  "  How 
terrible  he  looks  !  " 

"  Can  you  speak  to  me,  to-night  1 "  I  said,  addressing 
the  apparition,  and  again  concentrating  my  will  upon  my 
question.  "  If  so,  unburden  yourself.  We  will  assist 
you,  if  we  can." 

There  was  no  reply.  The  ghost  preserved  the  same 
sad,  impassive  countenance  ;  he  had  heard  me  not.  He 
seemed  in  great  distress  on  this  occasion,  moving  up  and 
down,  and  holding  out  the  pot  of  tulips  imploringly  toward 
me,  each  motion  of  his  being  accompanied  by  the  crack- 
ling noise  and  the  corpse-like  odor.  I  felt  sorely  troubled 
myself  to  see  this  poor  spirit  torn  by  an  endless  grief,  — so 
anxious  to  communicate  to  me  what  lay  on  his  soul,  and 
yet  debarred  by  some  occult  power  from  the  privilege. 

"Why,  Harry,"  cried  Jasper  after  a  silence,  during 
which  we  both  watched  the  motions  of  the  ghost  intently, 
"  why,  Harry,  my  boy,  there  are  two  of  them  !  " 

Astonished  by  his  words,  I  looked  around,  and  became 
immediately  aware  of  the  presence  of  a  second  luminous 
cloud,  in  the  midst  of  which  I  could  distinctly  trace  the 
figure  of  a  pale  but  lovely  woman.  I  needed  no  second 
glance  to  assure  me  that  it  was  the  unfortunate  wife  of 
Van  Koeren. 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  351 

"  It  is  his  wife,  Jasper,"  I  replied ;  "  I  recognize  her, 
as  I  have  recognized  her  husband,  by  the  portrait." 

"  How  sad  she  looks !  "  exclaimed  Jasper  in  a  low  voice. 

She  did  indeed  look  sad.  Her  face,  pale  and  mournful, 
did  not,  however,  seem  convulsed  with  sorrow,  as  was 
her  husband's.  She  seemed  to  be  oppressed  with  a  calm 
grief,  and  gazed  with  a  look  of  interest  that  was  pain- 
ful in  its  intensity,  on  Van  Koeren.  It  struck  me,  from 
his  air,  that,  though  she  saw  him,  he  did  not  see  her. 
His  whole  attention  was  concentrated  on  the  pot  of  tu- 
lips, while  Mrs.  Van  Koeren,  who  floated  at  an  elevation 
of  about  three  feet  from  the  floor,  and  thus  overtopped 
her  husband,  seemed  equally  absorbed  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  his  slightest  movement.  Occasionally  she  would 
turn  her  eyes  on  me,  as  if  to  call  my  attention  to  her 
companion,  and  then,  returning,  gaze  on  him  with  a  sad, 
womanly,  half-eager  smile,  that  to  me  was  inexpressibly 
mournful. 

There  was  something  exceedingly  touching  in  this 
strange  sight ;  —  these  two  spirits  so  near,  yet  so  distant. 
The  sinful  husband  torn  with  grief  and  weighed  down 
with  some  terrible  secret,  and  so  blinded  by  the  grossness 
of  his  being  as  to  be  unable  to  see  the  wife-angel  who  was 
watching  over  him ;  while  she,  forgetting  all  her  wrongs, 
and  attracted  to  earth  by  perhaps  the  same  human  sym- 
pathies, watched  from  a  greater  spiritual  height,  and  with 
a  tender  interest,  the  struggles  of  her  suffering  spouse. 

"By  Jove  !"  exclaimed  Jasper,  jumping  from  his  bed, 
"  I  know  what  it  means  now." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ] "  I  asked,  as  eager  to  know  as 
he  was  to  communicate. 

"Well,  that  flower-pot  that  the  old  chap  is  holding  —  " 
Jasper,  I  grieve  to  say,  was  rather  profane. 


352  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

"  Well,  what  of  that  flower-pot  ? " 

"  Observe  the  pattern.  It  has  two  handles  made  of  red 
snakes,  whose  tails  twist  round  the  top  and  form  a  rim. 
It  contains  tulips  of  three  colors,  yellow,  red,  and  purple." 

"I  see  all  that  as  well  as  you  do.  Let  us  have  the 
solution." 

"  Well,  Harry,  my  boy  !  don't  you  remember  that  there 
is  just  such  a  flower-pot,  tulips,  snakes  and  all,  carved  on 
the  queer  old  painted  mantel-piece  in  the  dining-room  * 

"  So  there  is  !  "  and  a  gleam  of  hope  shot  across  my 
brain,  and  my  heart  beat  quicker. 

"  Now  as  sure  as  you  are  alive,  Harry,  the  old  fellow  has 
concealed  something  important  behind  that  mantel-piece." 

"Jasper,  if  ever  I  am  Emperor  of  France,  I  will  make 
you  chief  of  police;  your  inductive  reasoning  is  mag- 
nificent." 

Actuated  by  the  same  impulse,  and  without  another 
word,  we  both  sprang  out  of  bed  and  lit  a  candle.  The 
apparitions,  if  they  remained,  were  no  longer  visible  in 
the  light.  Hastily  throwing  on  some  clothes,  we  rushed 
down  stairs  to  the  dining-room,  determined  to  have  the 
old  mantel-piece  down  without  loss  of  time.  We  had 
scarce  entered  the  room  when  we  felt  the  cool  wind 
blowing  on  our  faces. 

"Jasper,"  said  I,  "they  are  here  !," 

"  Well,"  answered  Jasper,  "  that  only  confirms  my  sus- 
picions that  we  are  011  the  right  track  this  time.  Let  us 
go  to  work.  See !  here  's  the  pot  of  tulips." 

This  pot  of  tulips  occupied  the  centre  of  the  mantel- 
piece, and  served  as  a  nucleus  round  which  all  the  fantas- 
tic animals  sculptured  elsewhere  might  be  said  to  gather. 
It  was  carved  on  a  species  of  raised  shield,  or  boss,  of 
wood,  that  projected  some  inches  beyond  the  plane  of  the 


THE  POT  OF  TULIPS.  353 

remainder  of  the  mantel-piece.  The  pot  itself  was  painted 
a  brick  color.  The  snakes  were  of  bronze  color,  gilt,  and 
the  tulips  —  yellow,  red,  and  purple  —  were  painted  after 
nature  with  the  most  exquisite  accuracy. 

For  some  time  Jasper  and  myself  tugged  away  at  this 
projection  without  any  avail.  We  were  convinced  that  it 
was  a  movable  panel  of  some  kind,  but  yet  were  totally 
unable  to  move  it.  Suddenly  it  struck  me  that  we  had 
not  yet  twisted  it.  I  immediately  proceeded  to  apply  all 
my  strength,  and  after  a  few  seconds  of  vigorous  exertion 
I  had  the  satisfaction  of  finding  it  move  slowly  round. 
After  giving  it  half  a  dozen  turns,  to  my  astonishment  the 
long  upper  panel  of  the  mantel-piece  fell  out  toward  us, 
apparently  on  concealed  hinges,  after  the  manner  of 
the  portion  of  escritoires  that  is  used  as  a  writing-table. 
Within  were  several  square  cavities  sunk  in  the  wall, 
and  lined  with  wood.  In  one  of  these  was  a  bundle 
of  papers. 

We  seized  these  papers  with  avidity,  and  hastily  glanced 
over  them.  They  proved  to  be  documents  vouching  for 
property  to  the  amount  of  several  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars, invested  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Van  Koeren  in  a  certain 
firm  at  Bremen,  who,  no  doubt,  thought  by  this  time 
that  the  money  would  remain  unclaimed  forever.  The 
desires  of  these  poor  troubled  spirits  were  accomplished. 
Justice  to  the  child  had  been  given  through  the  instru- 
mentality of  the  erring  father. 

The  formulas  necessary  to  prove  Alice  and  her  mother 
sole  heirs  to  Mr.  Van  Koeren's  estate  were  briefly  gone 
through,  and  the  poor  governess  passed  suddenly  from  the 
task  of  teaching  stupid  children  to  the  envied  position  of 
a  great  heiress.  I  had  ample  reason  afterward  for  think- 
ing that  her  heart  did  not  change  with  her  fortunes. 
*  23 


354  THE  POT  OF  TULIPS. 

That  Mr.  Van  Koeren  became  aware  of  his  wife's  inno- 
cence, just  before  he  died,  I  have  no  doubt.  How  this 
was  manifested  I  cannot  of  course  say,  but  I  think  it 
highly  probably  that  his  poor  wife  herself  was  enabled  at 
the  critical  moment  of  dissolution,  when  the  link  that 
binds  body  and  soul  together  is  attenuated  to  the  last 
thread,  to  put  herself  in  accord  with  her  unhappy  hus- 
band. Hence  his  sudden  starting  up  in  his  bed,  his  ap- 
parent conversation  with  some  invisible  being,  and  his 
fragmentary  disclosures,  too  broken,  however,  to  be  com- 
prehended. 

The  question  of  apparitions  has  been  so  often  discussed 
that  I  feel  no  inclination  to  enter  here  upon  the  truth  or 
fallacy  of  the  ghostly  theory.  I  myself  believe  in  ghosts. 
Alice  —  my  wife  —  believes  in  them  firmly ;  and  if  it 
suited  me  to  do  so  I  could  overwhelm  you  with  a  scien- 
tific theory  of  my  own  on  the  subject,  reconciling  ghosts 
and  natural  phenomena. 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  355 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 


I  HAD  just  retired  to  rest,  with  my  eyes  almost  blind 
•with,  the  study  of  a  new  work  on  physiology  by  M.  Brown- 
Sequard,  when  the  night-bell  was  pulled  violently. 

It  was  winter,  and  I  confess  I  grumbled-  as  I  rose  and 
went  down  stairs  to  open  the  door.  Twice  that  week  I 
had  been  aroused  long  after  midnight  for  the  most  trivial 
causes.  Once,  to  attend  upon  the  son  and  heir  of  a 
wealthy  family,  who  had  cut  his  thumb  with  a  penknife, 
which,  it  seems,  he  insisted  on  taking  to  bed  with  him ; 
and  once,  to  restore  a  young  gentleman  to  consciousness, 
who  had  been  found  by  his  horrified  parent  stretched 
insensible  on  the  staircase.  Diachylon  in  the  one  case 
and  ammonia  in  the  other,  were  all  that  my  patients  re- 
quired ;  and  I  had  a  faint  suspicion  that  the  present 
summons  was  perhaps  occasioned  by  no  case  more  neces- 
sitous than  those  I  have  quoted.  I  was  too  young  in  my 
profession,  however,  to  neglect  opportunities.  It  is  only 
when  a  physician  rises  to  a  very  large  practice  that  he 
can  afford  to  be  inconsiderate.  I  was  on  the  first  step  of 
the  ladder,  so  I  humbly  opened  my  door. 

A  woman  was  standing  ankle-deep  in  the  snow  that  lay 
upon  the  stoop.  I  caught  but  a  dim  glimpse  of  her  form, 
for  the  night  was  cloudy ;  but  I  could  hear  her  teeth  rat- 
tling like  castanets,  and,  as  the  sharp  wind  blew  her 


356  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

clothes  close  to  her  form,  I  could  discern  from  the  sharp- 
ness of  the  outlines  that  she  was  very  scantily  supplied 
with  raiment. 

"Come  in,  come  in,  my  good  woman,"  I  said  hastily, 
for  the  wind  seemed  to  catch  eagerly  at  the  opportunity 
of  making  itself  at  home  in  my  hall,  and  was  rapidly 
forcing  an  entrance  through  the  half-open  door.  "  Come 
in,  you  can  tell  me  all  you  have  to  communicate  inside." 

She  slipped  in  like  a  ghost,  and  I  closed  the  door. 
While  I  was  striking  a  light  in  my  office,  I  could  hear 
her  teeth  still  clicking,  out  in  the  dark  hall,  till  it  seemed 
as  if  some  skeleton  was  chattering.  As  soon  as  I  obtained 
a  light  I  begged  her  to  enter  the  room,  and,  without  occu- 
pying myself  particularly  about  her  appearance,  asked 
her  abruptly  what  her  business  was. 

"  My  father  has  met  with  a  severe  accident,"  she  said, 
"  and  requires  instant  surgical  aid.  I  entreat  you  to 
come  to  him  immediately." 

The  freshness  and  the  melody  of  her  voice  startled  me. 
Such  voices  rarely  if  ever  issue  from  any  but  beautiful 
forms.  I  looked  at  her  attentively,  but,  owing  to  a  non- 
descript species  of  shawl  in  which  her  head  was  wrapped, 
I  could  discern  nothing  beyond  what  seemed  to  be  a  pale, 
thin  face,  and  large  eyes.  Her  dress  was  lamentable. 
An  old  silk,  of  a  color  now  unrecognizable,  clung  to  her 
figure  in  those  limp  folds  which  are  so  eloquent  of  misery. 
The  creases  where  it  had  been  folded  were  worn  nearly 
through,  and  the  edges  of  the  skirt  had  decayed  into 
a  species  of  irregular  fringe,  which  was  clotted  and  dis- 
colored with  mud.  Her  shoes  —  which  were  but  half  con- 
cealed by  this  scanty  garment  —  were  shapeless  and  soft 
with  moisture.  Her  hands  were  hidden  under  the  ends 
of  the  shawl  which  covered  her  head  and  hung  down 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  357 

over  a  bust,  the  outlines  of  which,  although  angular,  seemed 
to  possess  grace.  Poverty,  when  partially  shrouded,  sel- 
dom fails  to  interest :  witness  the  statue  of  the  Veiled 
Beggar,  by  Monti. 

"  In  what  manner  was  your  father  hurt  1 "  I  asked,  in  a 
tone  considerably  softened  from  the  one  in  which  I  put 
my  first  question. 

"  He  blew  himself  up,  sir,  and  is  terribly  wounded." 

"  Ah  !     He  is  in  some  factory  then  1 " 

"  No,  sir,  he  is  a  chemist." 

"  A  chemist  1  Why,  he  is  a  brother  professional.  Wait 
an  instant  and  I  will  slip  on  my  coat  and  go  with  you. 
Do  you  live  far  from  here  ] " 

"  In  the  Seventh  Avenue,  not  more  than  two  blocks 
from  the  end  of  this  street." 

"  So  much  the  better.  We  will  be  with  him  in  a  few 
minutes.  Did  you  leave  any  one  in  attendance  on  him  ] " 

"  No,  sir.  He  will  allow  no  one  but  myself  to  enter 
his  laboratory.  And,  injured  as  he  is,  I  could  not  induce 
him  to  quit  it." 

"  Indeed  !  He  is  engaged  in  some  great  research,  per- 
haps ?  I  have  known  such  cases." 

We  were  passing  under  a  lamp-post,  and  the  woman 
suddenly  turned  and  glared  at  me  with  a  look  of  such 
wild  terror  that  for  an  instant  I  involuntarily  glanced 
round  me  under  the  impression  that  some  terrible  peril, 
unseen  by  me,  was  menacing  us  both. 

"  Don't  —  don't  ask  me  any  questions,"  she  said  breath- 
lessly. "  He  will  tell  you  all.  But  do,  0,  do  hasten ! 
Good  God !  he  may  be  dead  by  this  time  !  " 

I  made  no  reply,  but  allowed  her  to  grasp  my  hand, 
which  she  did  with  a  bony,  nervous  clutch,  and  endeav- 
ored with  some  difficulty  to  keep  pace  with  the  long  strides 


358  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

—  I  might  well  call  them  bounds,  for  they  seemed  the 
springs  of  a  wild  animal  rather  than  the  paces  of  a  young 
girl  —  with  which  she  covered  the  ground.  Not  a  word 
more  was  uttered  until  we  stopped  before  a  shabby,  old- 
fashioned  tenement-house  in  the  Seventh  Avenue,  not  far 
above  Twenty-Third  Street.  She  pushed  the  door  open 
with  a  convulsive  pressure,  and,  still  retaining  hold  of  my 
hand,  literally  dragged  me  up-stairs  to  what  seemed  to  be 
a  back  off-shoot  from  the  main  building,  as  high,  perhaps, 
as  the  fourth  story.  In  a  moment  more  I  found  myself 
in  a  moderate-sized  chamber,  lit  by  a  single  lamp.  In 
one  corner,  stretched  motionless  on  a  wretched  pallet-bed, 
I  beheld  what  I  supposed  to  be  the  figure  of  my  patient. 

"  He  is  there,"  said  the  girl ;  "  go  to  him.  See  if  he 
is  dead,  —  I  dare  not  look." 

I  made  my  way  as  well  as  I  could  through  the  num- 
berless dilapidated  chemical  instruments  with  which  the 
room  was  littered.  A  French  chafing-dish  supported  on 
an  iron  tripod  had  been  overturned,  and  was  lying  across 
the  floor,  while  the  charcoal,  still  warm,  was  scattered 
around  in  various  directions.  Crucibles,  alembics,  and 
retorts  were  confusedly  piled  in  various  corners,  and  on 
a  small  table  I  saw  distributed  in  separate  bottles  a  num- 
ber of  mineral  and  metallic  substances,  which  I  recognized 
as  antimony,  mercury,  plumbago,  arsenic,  borax,  etc.  It 
was  veritably  the  apartment  of  a  poor  chemist.  All  the 
apparatus  had  the  air  of  being  second-hand.  There  was 
no  lustre  of  exquisitely  annealed  glass  and  highly  polished 
metals,  such  as  dazzles  one  in  the  laboratory  of  the  pros- 
perous analyst.  The  make-shifts  of  poverty  were  every- 
where visible.  The  crucibles  were  broken,  or  gallipots 
were  used  instead  of  crucibles.  The  colored  tests  were 
not  in  the  usual  transparent  vials,  but  were  placed  in 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  359 

ordinary  black  bottles.  There  is  nothing  more  melan- 
choly than  to  behol'd  science  or  art  in  distress.  A  thread- 
bare scholar,  a  tattered  book,  or  a  battered  violin  is  a 
mute  appeal  to  our  sympathy. 

I  approached  the  wretched  pallet-bed  on  which  the  vic- 
tim of  chemistry  was  lying.  He  breathed  heavily,  and 
had  his  head  turned  toward  the  wall.  I  lifted  his  arm 
gently  to  arouse  his  attention.  "  How  goes  it,  my  poor 
friend  ? "  I  asked  him.  "  Where  are  you  hurt  1 " 

In  a  moment,  as  if  startled  by  the  sound  of  my  voice, 
he  sprang  up  in  his  bed,  and  cowered  against  the  wall 
like  a  wild  animal  driven  to  bay.  "  Who  are  you  1  I 
don't  know  you.  Who  brought  you  here  ]  You  are  a 
stranger.  How  dare  you  come  into  my  private  rooms 
to  spy  upon  me  1 " 

And  as  he  uttered  this  rapidly,  with  a  frightful  nervous 
energy,  I  beheld  a  pale  distorted  face,  draped  with  long 
gray  hair,  glaring  at  me  with  a  mingled  expression  of  fury 
and  terror. 

"  I  am  no  spy,"  I  answered  mildly.  "  I  heard  that 
you  had  met  with  an  accident,  and  have  come  to  cure 
you.  I  am  Doctor  Luxor,  and  here  is  my  card." 

The  old  man  took  the  card,  and  scanned  it  eagerly. 
"  You  are  a  physician  1 "  he  inquired  distrustfully. 

"  And  surgeon  also." 

"  You  are  bound  by  oath  not  to  reveal  the  secrets  of 
your  patients." 

"  Undoubtedly." 

"I  am  afraid  that  I  am  hurt,"  he  continued  faintly, 
half  sinking  back  in  the  bed. 

I  seized  the  opportunity  to  make  a  brief  examination 
of  his  body.  I  found  that  the  arms,  a  part  of  the  chest, 
and  a  part  of  the  face  were  terribly  scorched  ;  but  it 


360  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

seemed  to  me  that  there  was  nothing  to  be  apprehended 
but  pain. 

"You  will  not  reveal  anything  that  you  may  learn 
here  1 "  said  the  old  man,  feebly  fixing  his  eyes  on  my 
face  while  I  was  applying  a  soothing  ointment  to  the 
burns.  "  You  will  promise  me  1 " 

I  nodded  assent. 

"  Then  I  will  trust  you.  Cure  me,  —  I  will  pay  you 
well." 

I  could  scarce  help  smiling.  If  Lorenzo  de'  Medici, 
conscious  of  millions  of  ducats  in  his  coffers,  had  been 
addressing  some  leech  of  the  period,  he  could  not  have 
spoken  with  a  loftier  air  than  this  inhabitant  of  the  fourth 
story  of  a  tenement-house  in  the  Seventh  Avenue. 

"You  must  keep  quiet,"  I  answered.  "Let  nothing 
irritate  you.  I  will  leave  a  composing  draught  with  your 
daughter,  which  she  will  give  you  immediately.  I  will 
see  you  in  the  morning.  You  will  be  well  in  a  week." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  came  in  a  murmur  from  a  dusk  corner 
near  the  door.  I  turned,  and  beheld  the  dim  outline  of 
the  girl,  standing  with  clasped  hands  in  the  gloom  of  the 
dim  chamber. 

"My  daughter!"  screamed  the  old  man,  once  more 
leaping  up  in  the  bed  with  renewed  vitality.  "You  have 
seen  her,  then1?  When?  where?  0,  may  a  thousand 
cur—" 

"  Father  !  father  !  Anything,  —  anything  but  that. 
Don't,  don't  curse  me ! "  And  the  poor  girl,  rushing  in, 
flung  herself  sobbing  on  her  knees  beside  his  pallet. 

"Ah,  brigand  !  you  are  there,  are  you  ?  Sir,"  said  he, 
turning  to  me,  "I  am  the  most  unhappy  man  in  the 
world.  Talk  of  Sisyphus  rolling  the  ever-recoiling  stone, 
—  of  Prometheus  gnawed  by  the  vulture  since  the  birth 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  361 

of  time.  The  fables  yet  live.  There  is  my  rock,  forever 
crushing  me  back  !  there  is  my  aternal  vulture,  feeding 
upon  my  heart !  There  !  there  !  there  !  "  And,  with  an 
awful  gesture  of  malediction  and  hatred,  he  pointed  with 
his  wounded  hand,  swathed  and  shapeless  with  bandages, 
at  the  cowering,  sobbing,  wordless  woman  by  his  side. 

I  was  too  much  horror-stricken  to  attempt  even  to 
soothe  him.  The  anger  of  blood  against  blood  has  an 
electric  power  which  paralyzes  bystanders. 

"  Listen  to  me,  sir,"  he  continued,  "  while  I  skin  this 
painted  viper.  I  have  your  oath  ;  you  will  not  reveal.  I 
am  an  alchemist,  sir.  Since  I  was  twenty-two  years  old, 
I  have  pursued  the  wonderful  and  subtle  secret.  Yes, 
to  unfold  the  mysterious  Rose  guarded  with  such  terrible 
thorns  ;  to  decipher  the  wondrous  Table  of  Emerald  ;  to 
accomplish  the  mystic  nuptials  of  the  Red  King  and  the 
White  Queen;  to  marry  them  soul  to  soul  and  body  to 
body  for  ever  and  ever,  in  the  exact  proportions  of  laud 
and  water,  —  such  has  been  my  sublime  aim,  such  has 
been  the  splendid  feat  that  I  have  accomplished." 

I  recognized  at  a  glance,  in  this  incomprehensible  far- 
rago, the  argot  of  the  true  alchemist.  Ripley,  Flamel, 
and  others  have  supplied  the  world,  in  their  works,  with 
the  melancholy  spectacle  of  a  scientific  Bedlam. 

"  Two  years  since,"  continued  the  poor  man,  growing 
more  and  more  excited  with  every  word  that  he  uttered, 
— "  two  years  since,  I  succeeded  in  solving  the  great 
problem,  —  in  transmuting  the  baser  metals  into  gold. 
None  but  myself,  that  girl,  and  God  knows  the  privations 
I  had  suffered  up  to  that  time.  Food,  clothing,  air,  ex- 
ercise, everything  but  shelter,  was  sacrificed  toward  the 
one  great  end.  Success  at  last  crowned  my  labors.  That 
which  Nicholas  Flamel  did  in  1382,  that  which  George 


362  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

Ripley  did  at  Rhodes  in  1460,  that  which  Alexander  Sethon 
and  Michael  Scudivogjus  did  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
I  did  in  1856.  I  made  gold !  I  said  to  myself,  *  I  will 
astonish  New  York  more  than  Flamel  did  Paris.'  He 
was  a  poor  copyist,  and  suddenly  launched  into  magnifi- 
cence. I  had  scarce  a  rag  to  rny  back  :  I  would  rival  the 
Medicis.  I  made  gold  every  day.  I  toiled  night  and 
morning ;  for  I  must  tell  you  that  I  never  was  able  to 
make  more  than  a  certain  quantity  at  a  time,  and  that  by 
a  process  almost  entirely  dissimilar  to  those  hinted  at  in 
those  books  of  alchemy  I  had  hitherto  consulted.  But  I 
had  no  doubt  that  facility  would  come  with  experience, 
and  that  erelong  I  should  be  able  to  eclipse  in  wealth  the 
richest  sovereigns  of  the  earth. 

"  So  I  toiled  on.  Day  after  day  I  gave  to  this  girl  here 
what  gold  I  succeeded  in  fabricating,  telling  her  to  store 
it  away  after  supplying  our  necessities.  I  was  astonished 
to  perceive  that  we  lived  as  poorly  as  ever.  I  reflected, 
however,  that  it  was  perhaps  a  commendable  piece  of 
prudence  on  the  part  of  my  daughter.  Doubtless,  I  said, 
she  argues  that  the  less  we  spend  -the  sooner  we  shall  ac- 
cumulate a  capital  wherewith  to  live  at  ease  ;  so,  thinking 
her  course  a  wise  one,  I  did  not  reproach  her  with  her  nig- 
gardliness, but  toiled  on  amid  want,  with  closed  lips. 

"  The  gold  which  I  fabricated  was,  as  I  said  before,  of 
an  invariable  size,  namely,  a  little  ingot  worth  perhaps 
thirty  or  forty-five  dollars.  In  two  years  I  calculated 
that  I  had  made  five  hundred  of  these  ingots,  which, 
rated  at  an  average  of  thirty  dollars  a  piece,  would  amount 
to  the  gross  sum  of  fifteen  thousand  dollars.  After  de- 
ducting our  slight  expenses  for  two  years,  we  ought  to 
have  nearly  fourteen  thousand  dollars  left.  It  was  time, 
I  thought,  to  indemnify  myself  for  my  years  of  suffering, 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  363 

and  surround  my  child  and  myself  with  such  moderate 
comforts  as  our  means  allowed.  I  went  to  my  daughter 
and  explained  to  her  that  I  desired  to  make  an  encroach- 
ment upon  our  little  hoard.  To  my  utter  amazement, 
she  burst  into  tears,  and  told  me  that  she  had  not  got  a 
dollar,  —  that  all  of  our  wealth  had  been  stolen  from  her. 
Almost  overwhelmed  by  this  new  misfortune,  I  in  vain 
endeavored  to  discover  from  her  in  what  manner  our  sav- 
ings had  been  plundered.  She  could  afford  me  no  ex- 
planation beyond  what  I  might  gather  from  an  abundance 
of  sobs  and  a  copious  flow  of  tears. 

"  It  was  a  bitter  blow,  Doctor,  but  nil  desperandum  was 
my  motto,  so  I  went  to  work  at  my  crucible  again,  with 
redoubled  energy,  and  made  an  ingot  nearly  every  second 
day.  I  determined  this  time  to  put  them  in  some  secure 
place  myself ;  but  the  very  first  day  I  set  my  apparatus 
in  order  for  the  projection,  the  girl  Marian  —  that  is  my 
daughter's  name  —  came  weeping  to  me  and  implored  me 
to  allow  her  to  take  care  of  our  treasure.  I  refused,  de- 
cisively, saying  that,  having  found  her  already  incapable 
of  filling  the  trust,  I  could  place  no  faith  in  her  again. 
But  she  persisted,  clung  to  my  neck,  threatened  to  aban- 
don me,  in  short  used  so  many  of  the  bad  but  irresistible 
arguments  known  to  women,  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
refuse  her.  She  has  since  that  time  continued  to  take 
the  ingots. 

"  Yet  you  behold,"  continued  the  old  alchemist,  casting 
an  inexpressibly  mournful  glance  around  the  wretched 
apartment,  "  the  way  we  live.  Our  food  is  insufficient 
and  of  bad  quality ;  we  never  buy  clothes ;  the  rent  of 
this  hole  is  a  mere  nothing.  What  am  I  to  think  of  the 
wretched  girl  who  plunges  me  into  this  misery  1  Is  she 
a  miser,  think  you  1  or  a  female  gamester  1  or  —  or  — 


364  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

does  she  squander  it  riotously  in  places  I  know  not  of1? 
0  Doctor,  Doctor!  do  not  blame  me  if  I  heap  impreca- 
tions on  her  head,  for  I  have  suffered  bitterly !  "  The 
poor  man  here  closed  his  eyes  and  sank  back  groaning 
on  his  bed. 

This  singular  narrative  excited  in  me  the  strangest 
emotions.  I  glanced  at  the  girl  Marian,  who  had  been  a 
patient  listener  to  these  horrible  accusations  of  cupidity, 
and  never  did  I  behold  a  more  angelic  air  of  resignation 
than  beamed  over  her  countenance.  It  was  impossible 
that  any  one  with  those  pure,  limpid  eyes,  that  calm, 
broad  forehead,  that  childlike  mouth,  could  be  such  a 
monster  of  avarice  or  deceit  as  the  old  man  represented. 
The  truth  was  plain  enough  :  the  alchemist  was  mad,  — 
what  alchemist  was  there  ever  who  was  not  ?  —  and  his 
insanity  had  taken  this  terrible  shape.  I  felt  an  inex- 
pressible pity  move  my  heart  for  this  poor  girl,  whose 
youth  was  burdened  with  such  an  awful  sorrow. 

"What  is  your  name1?"  I  asked  the  old  man,  taking 
his  tremulous,  fevered  hand  in  mine. 

"  William  Blakelock,"  he  answered.  "  I  come  of  an 
old  Saxon  stock,  sir,  that  bred  true  men  and  women  in 
former  days.  God !  how  did  it  ever  come  to  pass  that 
such  a  one  as  that  girl  ever  sprung  from  our  line  1 "  The 
glance  of  loathing  and  contempt  that  he  cast  at  her  made 
me  shudder. 

"  May  you  not  be  mistaken  in  your  daughter  1 "  I  said, 
very  mildly.  "  Delusions  with  regard  to  alchemy  are,  or 
have  been,  very  common  — -  " 

"  What,  sir  1 "  cried  the  old  man,  bounding  in  his  bed. 
"  What  ?  Do  you  doubt  that  gold  can  be  made  1  Do 
you  know,  sir,  that  M.  C.  Theodore  Tiffereau  made  gold 
at  Paris,  in  the  year  1854,  in  the  presence  of  M.  Levol, 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  365 

the  assayer  of  the  Imperial  Mint,  and  the  result  of  the 
experiments  was  read  before  the  Academy  of  Sciences  on 
the  sixteenth  of  October  of  the  same  year  1  But  stay ; 
you  shall  have  better  proof  yet.  I  will  pay  you  with  one 
of  my  ingots,  and  you  shall  attend  me  until  I  am  well. 
Get  me  an  ingot !  " 

This  last  command  was  addressed  to  Marian,  who  was 
still  kneeling  close  to  her  father's  bedside.  I  observed 
her  with  some  curiosity  as  this  mandate  was  issued.  She 
became  very  pale,  clasped  her  hands  convulsively,  but 
neither  moved  nor  made  any  reply. 

"  Get  me  an  ingot,  I  say ! "  reiterated  the  alchemist, 
passionately. 

She  fixed  her  large  eyes  imploringly  upon  him.  Her 
lips  quivered,  and  two  huge  tears  rolled  slowly  down  her 
white  cheeks. 

"Obey  me,  wretched  girl,"  cried  the  old  man  in  an  agi- 
tated voice,  "  or  I  swear,  by  all  that  I  reverence  in  heaven 
and  earth,  that  I  will  lay  my  curse  upon  you  forever !  " 

I  felt  for  an  instant  that  I  ought  perhaps  to  interfere, 
and  spare  the  girl  the  anguish  that  she  was  so  evidently 
suffering ;  but  a  powerful  curiosity  to  see  how  this  strange 
scene  would  terminate  withheld  me. 

The  last  threat  of  her  father,  uttered  as  it  was  with  a 
terrible  vehemence,  seemed  to  appall  Marian.  She  rose 
with  a  sudden  leap,  as  if  a  serpent  had  stung  her,  and, 
rushing  into  an  inner  apartment,  returned  with  a  small 
object  in  her  hand,  which  she  placed  in  mine,  and  then 
flung  herself  in  a  chair  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  room, 
weeping  bitterly. 

"  You  see  —  you  see,"  said  the  old  man  sarcastically, 
"  how  reluctantly  she  parts  with  it.  Take  it,  sir ;  it  is 
yours." 


366  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

It  was  a  small  bar  of  metal.  I  examined  it  carefully, 
poised  it  in  my  hand,  —  the  color,  weight,  everything, 
announced  that  it  really  was  gold. 

"  You  doubt  its  genuineness,  perhaps,"  continued  the 
alchemist.  "  There  are  acids  on  yonder  table,  —  test  it." 

I  confess  that  I  did  doubt  its  genuineness ;  but  after  I 
had  acted  upon  the  old  man's  suggestion,  all  further  sus- 
picion was  rendered  impossible.  It  was  gold  of  the  high- 
est purity.  I  was  astounded.  Was  then,  after  all,  this 
man's  tale  a  truth  1  Was  his  daughter,  that  fair,  angelic- 
looking  creature,  a  demon  of  avarice,  or  a  slave  to  worse 
passions'?  I  felt  bewildered.  I  had  never  met  with 
anything  so  incomprehensible.  I  looked  from  father  to 
daughter  in  the  blankest  amazement.  I  suppose  that  my 
countenance  betrayed  my  astonishment,  for  the  old  man 
said,  "  I  perceive  that  you  are  surprised.  Well,  that  is 
natural.  You  had  a  right  to  think  me  mad  until  I  proved 
myself  sane." 

"  But,  Mr.  Blakelock,"  I  said,  "  I  really  cannot  take 
this  gold.  I  have  no  right  to  it.  I  cannot  in  justice 
charge  so  large  a  fee." 

"Take  it,  —  take  it,"  he  answered  impatiently;  "your 
fee  will  amount  to  that  before  I  am  well.  Beside,"  he 
added  mysteriously,  "  I  wish  to  secure  your  friendship. 
I  wish  that  you  should  protect  me  from  her,"  —  and  he 
pointed  his  poor,  bandaged  hand  at  Marian. 

My  eye  followed  his  gesture,  and  I  caught  the  glance 
that  replied,  —  a  glance  of  horror,  distrust,  despair.  The 
beautiful  face  was  distorted  into  positive  ugliness. 

"  It 's  all  true,"  I  thought ;  "  she  is  the  demon  that  her 
father  represents  her." 

I  now  rose  to  go.  This  domestic  tragedy  sickened  me. 
This  treachery  of  blood  against  blood  was  too  horrible  to 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  367 

witness.  I  wrote  a  prescription  for  the  old  man,  left 
,  directions  as  to  the  renewal  of  the  dressings  upon  his 
burns,  and,  bidding  him  good  night,  hastened  towards 
the  door. 

While  I  was  fumbling  on  the  dark,  crazy  landing  for 
the  staircase,  I  felt  a  hand  laid  on  my  arm. 

"  Doctor,"  whispered  a  voice  that  I  recognized  as  Ma- 
rian Blakelock's,  "  Doctor,  have  you  any  compassion  in 
your  heart  1 " 

"  I  hope  so,"  I  answered,  shortly,  shaking  off  her  hand, 
—  her  touch  filled  me  with  loathing. 

"  Hush !  don't  talk  so  loud.  If  you  have  any  pity  in 
your  nature,  give  me  back,  I  entreat  of  you,  that  gold 
ingot  which  my  father  gave  you  this  evening." 

"  Great  heaven  !  "  said  I,  "  can  it  be  possible  that  so  fair 
a  woman  can  be  such  a  mercenary,  shameless  wretch "? " 

"  Ah  !  you  know  not,  —  I  cannot  tell  you !  Do  not 
judge  me  harshly.  I  call  God  to  witness  that  I  am  not 
what  you  deem  me.  Some  day  or  other  you  will  know. 
But,"  she  added,  interrupting  herself,  "the  ingot,  —  where 
is  it?  I  must  have  it.  My  life  depends  on  your  giving 
it  to  me." 

"  Take  it,  impostor ! "  I  cried,  placing  it  in  her  hand, 
that  closed  on  it  with  a  horrible  eagerness.  "  I  never  in- 
tended to  keep  it.  Gold  made  under  the  same  roof  that 
covers  such  as  you  must  be  accursed." 

So  saying,  heedless  of  the  nervous  effort  she  made  to 
detain  me,  I  stumbled  down  the  stairs  and  walked  hastily 
home. 

The  next  morning,  while  I  was  in  my  office,  smoking 
my  matutinal  cigar,  and  speculating  over  the  singular 
character  of  my  acquaintances  of  last  night,  the  door 
opened,  and  Marian  Blakelock  entered.  She  had  the 


368  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

same  look  of  terror  that  I  had  observed  the  evening  be- 
fore, and  she  panted  as  if  she  had  been  running  fast. 

"  Father  has  got  out  of  bed,"  she  gasped  out,  "  and  in- 
sists on  going  on  with  his  alchemy.  Will  it  kill  him  1 " 

"Not  exactly,"  I  answered,  coldly.  "It  were  better 
that  he  kept  quiet,  so  as  to  avoid  the  chance  of  inflam- 
mation. However,  you  need  not  be  alarmed ;  his  burns 
are  not  at  all  dangerous,  although  painful." 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !  "  she  cried,  in  the  most  im- 
passioned accents;  and,  before  I  was  aware  of  what  she 
was  doing,  she  seized  my  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"  There,  that  will  do,"  I  said,  withdrawing  my  hand ; 
"  you  are  under  no  obligations  to  me.  You  had  better 
go  back  to  your  father." 

"  I  can't  go,"  she  answered.  "  You  despise  me,  —  is  it 
not  so  1 " 

I  made  no  reply. 

"You  think  me  a  monster,  — a  criminal.  When  you 
went  home  last  night,  you  were  wonder-struck  that  so  vile 
a  creature  as  I  should  have  so  fair  a  face." 

"You  embarrass  me,  madam,"  I  said,  in  a  most  chilling 
tone.  "Pray  relieve  me  from  this  unpleasant  position." 

"  Wait !  I  cannot  bear  that  you  should  think  ill  of 
me.  You  are  good  and  kind,  and  I  desire  to  possess  your 
esteem.  You  little  know  how  I  love  my  father." 

I  could  not  restrain  a  bitter  smile. 

"You  do  not  believe  that?  WTell,  I  will  convince  you. 
I  have  had  a  hard  struggle  all  last  night  with  myself,  but 
am  now  resolved.  This  life  of  deceit  must  continue  no 
longer.  Will  you  hear  my  vindication  1 " 

I  assented.  The  wonderful  melody  of  her  voice  and 
the  purity  of  her  features  were  charming  me  once  more. 
I  half  believed  in  her  innocence  already. 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  369 

"  My  father  has  told  you  a  portion  of  his  history.  But 
he  did  not  tell  you  that  his  continued  failures  in  his 
search"  after  the  secret  of  metallic  transmutation  nearly 
killed  him.  Two  years  ago  he  was  on  the  verge  of  the 
grave,  working  every  day  at  his  mad  pursuit,  and  every 
day  growing  weaker  and  more  emaciated.  I  saw  that  if 
his  mind  was  not  relieved  in  some  way  he  would  die. 
The  thought  was  madness  to  me,  for  I  loved  him,  —  I 
love  him  still,  as  a  daughter  never  loved  a  father  before. 
During  all  these  years  of  poverty  I  had  supported  the 
house  with  my  needle  ;  it  was  hard  work,  but  I  did  it,  — 
I  do  it  still ! " 

"  What  1"  I  cried,  startled,  "  does  not  —  " 

"Patience.  Hear  me  out.  My  father  was  dying  of 
,  disappointment.  I  must  save  him.  By  incredible  exer- 
tions, working  night  and  day,  I  saved  about  thirty-five 
dollars  in  notes.  These  I  exchanged  for  gold,  and  one 
day,  when  my  father  was  not  looking,  I  cast  them  into 
the  crucible  in  which  he  was  making  one  of  his  vain  at- 
tempts at  transmutation.  God,  I  am  sure,  will  pardon 
the  deception.  I  never  anticipated  the  misery  it  would 
lead  to. 

"I  never  beheld  anything  like  the  joy  of  my  poor 
father,  when,  after  emptying  his  crucible,  he  found  a  de- 
posit of  pure  gold  at  the  bottom.  He  wept,  and  danced, 
and  sang,  and  built  such  castles  in  the  air,  that  my  brain 
was  dizzy  to  hear  him.  He  gave  me  the  ingot  to  keep, 
and  went  to  work  at  his  alchemy  with  renewed  vigor. 
The  same  thing  occurred.  He  always  found  the  same 
quantity  of  gold  in  his  crucible.  I  alone  knew  the  secret. 
He  was  happy,  poor  man,  for  nearly  two  years,  in  the  be- 
lief that  he  was  amassing  a  fortune.  I  all  the  while  plied 
my  needle  for  our  daily  bread.  When  he  asked  me  for 

24 


370  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

his  savings,  the  first  stroke  fell  upon  me.  Then  it  was 
that  I  recognized  the  folly  of  my  conduct.  I  could  give 
him  no  money.  I  never  had  any,  —  while  he  believed 
that  I  had  fourteen  thousand  dollars.  My  heart  was 
nearly  broken  when  I  found  that  he  had  conceived  the 
most  injurious  suspicions  against  me.  Yet  I  could  not 
blame  him.  I  could  give  no  account  of  the  treasure 
I  had  permitted  him  to  believe  was  in  my  possession.  I 
must  suffer  the  penalty  of  my  fault,  for  to  undeceive  him 
would  be,  I  felt,  to  kill  him.  I  remained  silent  then,  and 
suffered. 

"  You  know  the  rest.  You  now  know  why  it  was  that 
I  was  reluctant  to  give  you  that  ingot,  — why  it  was  that 
I  degraded  myself  so  far  as  to  ask  it  back.  It  was  the 
only  means  I  had  of  continuing  a  deception  on  which  I 
believed  my  father's  life  depended.  But  that  delusion 
has  been  dispelled.  I  can  live  this  life  of  hypocrisy  no 
longer.  I  cannot  exist,  and  hear  my  father,  whom  I  love 
so,  wither  me  daily  with  his  curses.  I  will  undeceive 
him  this  very  day.  Will  you  come  with  me,  for  I  fear 
the  effect  on  his  enfeebled  frame1?" 

"  Willingly,"  I  answered,  taking  her  by  the  hand  ;  "  and 
I  think  that  no  absolute  danger  need  be  apprehended. 
Now,  Marian,"  I  added,  "  let  me  ask  forgiveness  for  having 
even  for  a  moment  wounded  so  noble  a  heart.  You  are 
truly  as  great  a  martyr  as  any  of  those  whose  sufferings 
the  Church  perpetuates  in  altar-pieces." 

"I  knew  you  would  do  me  justice  when  you  knew  all," 
she  sobbed,  pressing  my  hand ;  "  but  come.  I  am  on 
fire.  Let  us  hasten  to  my  father,  and  break  this  terror 
to  him." 

When  we  reached  the  old  alchemist's  room,  we  found 
him  busily  engaged  over  a  crucible  which  was  placed  on 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  371 

a  small  furnace,  and  in  which  some  indescribable  mixture 
was  boiling.     He  looked  up  as  we  entered. 

"  No  fear  of  me,  Doctor,"  he  said,  with  a  ghastly  smile, 
"  no  fear.  I  must  not  allow  a  little  physical  pain  to  inter- 
rupt my  great  work,  you  know.  By  the  way,  you  are  just 
in  time.  In  a  few  moments  the  marriage  of  the  Red  King 
and  White  Queen  will  be  accomplished,  as  George  Ripley 
calls  the  great  act,  in  his  book  entitled  The  Twelve  Gates. 
Yes,  Doctor,  in  less  than  ten  minutes  you  will  see  me 
make  pure,  red,  shining  gold  !  "  And  the  poor  old  man 
smiled  triumphantly,  and  stirred  his  foolish  mixture  with 
a  long  rod,  which  he  held  with  difficulty  in  his  bandaged 
hands.  It  was  a  grievous  sight  for  a  man  of  any  feeling 
to  witness. 

"  Father,"  said  Marian,  in  a  low,  broken  voice,  advan- 
cing a  little  toward  the  poor  old  dupe,  "  I  want  your  for- 
giveness." 

"  Ah,  hypocrite  !  for  what  *?  Are  you  going  to  give  me 
back  my  gold  1 " 

"No,  father,  but  for  the  deception  that  I  have  been 
practising  on  you  for  two  years  —  " 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  "  shouted  the  old  man,  with  a 
radiant  countenance.  "She  has  concealed  my  fourteen 
thousand  dollars  all  this  time,  and  now  comes  to  restore 
them.  I  will  forgive  her.  Where  are  they,  Marian  1 " 

"  Father,  —  it  must  come  out.  You  never  made  any 
gold.  It  was  I  who  saved  up  thirty-five  dollars,  and  I 
used  to  slip  them  into  your  crucible  when  your  back  was 
turned,  —  and  I  did  it  only  because  I  saw  that  you  were 
dying  of  disappointment.  It  was  wrong,  I  know,  —  but, 
father,  I  meant  well.  You  '11  forgive  me,  won't  you  2 " 
And  the  poor  girl  advanced  a  step  towards  the  alche- 
mist. 


372  THE  GOLDEN  INGOT. 

He  grew  deathly  pale,  and  staggered  as  if  about  to  fall. 
The  next  instant,  though,  he  recovered  himself,  and  burst 
into  a  horrible  sardonic  laugh.  Then  he  said,  in  tones 
full  of  the  bitterest  irony,  "A  conspiracy,  is  it1?  Well 
done,  Doctor !  You  think  to  reconcile  me  with  this 
wretched  girl  by  trumping  up  this  story,  that  I  have 
been  for  two  years  a  dupe  of  her  filial  piety.  It 's 
clumsy,  Doctor,  and  is  a  total  failure.  Try  again." 

"  But  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Blakelock,"  I  said  as  earnestly 
as  I  could,  "  I  believe  your  daughter's  statements  to  be 
perfectly  true.  You  will  find  it  to  be  so,  as  she  has  got 
the  ingot  in  her  possession  which  so  often  deceived  you 
into  the  belief  that  you  made  gold,  and  you  will  cer- 
tainly find  that  no  transmutation  has  taken  place  in 
your  crucible." 

"Doctor,"  said  the  old  man,  in  tones  of  the  most  set- 
tled conviction,  "you  are  a  fool.  That  girl  has  wheedled 
you.  In  less  than  a  minute  I  will  turn  you  out  a  piece 
of  gold,  purer  than  any  the  earth  produces.  Will  that 
convince  you?" 

"  That  will  convince  me,"  I  answered.  By  a  gesture  I 
imposed  silence  on  Marian,  who  was  about  to  speak.  I 
thought  it  better  to  allow  the  old  man  to  be  his  own 
undeceiver,  —  and  we  awaited  the  coming  crisis. 

The  old  man,  still  smiling  with  anticipated  triumph, 
kept  bending  eagerly  over  his  crucible,  stirring  the  mix- 
ture with  his  rod,  and  muttering  to  himself  all  the  time. 
"  Now,"  I  heard  him  say,  "  it  changes.  There,  —  there  's 
the  scum.  And  now  the  green  and  bronze  shades  flit 
across  it.  0,  the  beautiful  green  !  the  precursor  of  the 
golden-red  hue,  that  tells  of  the  end  attained  !  Ah  !  now 
the  golden-red  is  coming  —  slowly  —  slowly  !  It  deepens, 
it  shines,  it  is  dazzling !  Ah,  I  have  it !  "  So  saying,  he 


THE  GOLDEN  INGOT.  373 

caught  up  his  crucible  in  a  chemist's  tongs,  and  bore  it 
slowly  toward  the  table  on  which  stood  a  brass  vessel. 

"  Now,  incredulous  Doctor  ! "  he  cried,  "  come  and  be 
convinced  ";  and  immediately  began  carefully  pouring  the 
contents  of  the  crucible  into  the  brass  vessel.  When 
the  crucible  was  quite  empty,  he  turned  it  up,  and  called 
me  again.  "  Come,  Doctor,  come  and  be  convinced.  See 
for  yourself." 

"  See  first  if  there  is  any  gold  in  your  crucible,"  I  an- 
swered, without  moving. 

He  laughed,  shook  his  head  derisively,  and  looked  into 
the  crucible.  In  a  moment  he  grew  pale  as  death. 

"  Nothing  !  "  he  cried.  "  0,  a  jest !  a  jest !  There 
must  be  gold  somewhere.  Marian  !  " 

"The  gold  is  here,  father,"  said  Marian,  drawing  the 
ingot  from  her  pocket ;  "  it  is  all  we  ever  had." 

"  Ah ! "  shrieked  the  poor  old  man,  as  he  let  the  empty 
crucible  fall,  and  staggered  toward  the  ingot  which  Marian 
held  out  to  him.  He  made  three  steps,  and  then  fell  on 
his  face.  Marian  rushed  toward  him,  and  tried  to  lift 
him,  but  could  not.  I  put  her  aside  gently,  and  placed 
my  hand  on  his  heart. 

" Marian/'  said  I,  "it  is  perhaps  better  as  it  is.  He 
is  dead  !  " 


374  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 


A   PREDESTINED    MARRIAGE. 

ELSIE  and  I  were  to  be  married  in  less  than  a  week. 
It  was  rather  a  strange  match,  and  I  knew  that  some  of 
our  neighbors  shook  their  heads  over  it  and  said  that  no 
good  would  come.  The  way  it  came  to  pass  was  thus. 

I  loved  Elsie  Burns  for  two  years,  during  which  time 
she  refused  me  three  times.  I  could  no  more  help  asking 
her  to  have  me,  when  the  chance  offered,  than  I  could 
help  breathing  or  living.  To  love  her  seemed  natural  to 
me  as  existence.  I  felt  no  shame,  only  sorrow,  when  she 
rejected  me ;  I  felt  no  shame  either  when  I  renewed  my 
suit.  The  neighbors  called  me  mean-spirited  to  take  up 
with  any  girl  that  had  refused  me  as  often  as  Elsie  Burns 
had  done ;  but  what  cared  I  about  the  neighbors  1  If  it 
is  black  weather,  and  the  sun  is  under  a  cloud  every  day 
for  a  month,  is  that  any  reason  why  the  poor  farmer 
should  not  hope  for  the  blue  sky  and  the  plentiful  burst 
of  warm  light  when  the  dark  month  is  over?  I  never 
entirely  lost  heart.  Do  not,  however,  mistake  me.  I  did 
not  mope,  and  moan,  and  grow  pale,  after  the  manner  of 
poetical  lovers.  No  such  thing.  I  went  bravely  about 
my  business,  ate  and  drank  as  usual,  laughed  when  the 
laugh  went  round,  and  slept  soundly,  and  woke  refreshed. 
Yet  all  this  time  I  loved  —  desperately  loved  —  Elsie 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  375 

Burns.  I  went  wherever  I  hoped  to  meet  her,  but  did 
not  haunt  her  with  my  attentions.  I  behaved  to  her  as 
any  friendly  young  man  would  have  behaved  :  I  met  her 
and  parted  from  her  cheerfully.  She  was  a  good  girl, 
too,  and  behaved  well.  She  had  me  in  her  power,  —  how 
a  woman  in  Elsie's  situation  could  have  mortified  a  man 
in  mine  !  —  but  she  never  took  the  slightest  advantage  of 
it.  She  danced  with  me  when  I  asked  her,  and  had  no 
foolish  fears  of  allowing  me  to  see  her  home  of  nights, 
after  a  ball  was  over,  or  of  wandering  with  me  through 
the  pleasant  New  England  fields  when  the  wild-flowers 
made  the  paths  like  roads  in  fairy-land. 

On  the  several  disastrous  occasions  when  I  presented 
my  suit  I  did  it  simply  and  manfully,  telling  her  that  I 
loved  her  very  much,  and  would  do  everything  to  make 
her  happy,  if  she  would  be  my  wife.  I  made  no  fulsome 
protestations,  and  did  not  once  allude  to  suicide.  She, 
on  the  other  hand,  calmly  and  gravely  thanked  me  for 
my  good  opinion,  but  with  the  same  calm  gravity  rejected 
me.  I  used  to  tell  her  that  I  was  grieved  ;  that  I  would 
not  press  her;  that  I  would  wait  an<J  hope  for  some 
change  in  her  feelings.  She  had  an  esteem  for  me,  she 
would  say,  but  could  not  marry  me.  I  never  asked  her 
for  any  reasons.  I  hold  it  to  be  an  insult  to  a  woman  of 
sense  to  demand  her  reasons  on  such  an  occasion.  Enough 
for  me  that  she  did  not  then  wish  to  be  my  wife ;  so  the 
old  intercourse  went  on,  —  she  cordial  and  polite  as  ever, 
I  never  for  one  moment  doubting  that  the  day  would 
come  when  my  roof-tree  would  shelter  her,  and  we  should 
smile  together  over  our  fireside  at  my  long  and  indefati- 
gable wooing. 

I  will  confess  that  at  times  I  felt  a  little  jealous,  — jeal- 
ous of  a  man  named  Hammond  Brake,  who  lived  in  our 


376  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 

village.  He  was  a  weird,  saturnine  fellow,  who  made  no 
friends  among  the  young  men  of  the  neighborhood,  but 
who  loved  to  go  alone,  with  his  books  and  his  own 
thoughts  for  company.  He  was  a  studious,  and,  I  be- 
lieve, a  learned  young  man,  and  there  was  no  avoiding 
the  fact  that  he  possessed  considerable  influence  over  El- 
sie. She  liked  to  talk  with  him  in  corners,  or  in  secluded 
nooks  of  the  forest,  when  we  all  went  out  blackberry- 
gathering  or  picnicking.  She  read  books  that  he  gave 
her,  and  whenever  a  discussion  arose  relative  to  any  topic 
higher  than  those  ordinary  ones  we  usually  canvassed, 
Elsie  appealed  to  Brake  for  his  opinion,  as  a  disciple  con- 
sulting a  beloved  master.  I  confess  that  for  a  time  I 
feared  this  man  as  a  rival.  A  little  closer  observation, 
however,  convinced  me  that  my  suspicions  were  un- 
founded. The  relation  between  Elsie  and  Hammond 
Brake  was  purely  intellectual.  She  reverenced  his  talents 
and  acquirements,  but  she  did  not  love  him.  His  influ- 
ence over  her,  nevertheless,  was  none  the  less  decided. 

In  time  —  as  I  thought  all  along  —  Elsie  yielded.  I 
was  what  was  considered  a  most  eligible  match,  being 
tolerably  rich,  and  Elsie's  parents  were  most  anxious  to 
have  me  for  a  son-in-law.  I  was  good-looking  and  well- 
educated  enough,  and  the  old  people,  I  believe,  pertina- 
ciously dinned  all  my  advantages  into  my  little  girl's  ears. 
She  battled  against  the  marriage  for  a  long  time  with  a 
strange  persistence,  —  all  the  more  strange  because  she 
never  alleged  the  slightest  personal  dislike  to  me ;  but 
after  a  vigorous  cannonading  from  her  own  garrison,  (in 
which,  I  am  proud  to  say,  I  did  not  in  any  way  join,)  she 
hoisted  the  white  flag  and  surrendered. 

I  was  very  happy.  I  had  no  fear  about  being  able  to 
gain  Elsie's  heart.  I  think  —  indeed  I  know  —  that  she 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  377 

had  liked  me  all  along,  and  that  her  refusals  were  dic- 
tated by  other  feelings  than  those  of  a  personal  nature. 
I  only  guessed  as  much  then.  It  was  some  time  before  I 
knew  all. 

As  the  day  approached  for  our  wedding  Elsie  did  not 
appear  at  all  stricken  with  woe.  The  village  gossips  had 
not  the  smallest  opportunity  for  establishing  a  romance, 
with  a  compulsory  bride  for  the,  heroine.  Yet  to  me  it 
seemed  as  if  there  was  something  strange  about  her.  A 
vague  terror  appeared  to  beset  her.  Even  in  her  most 
loving  moments,  when  resting  in  my  arms,  she  would 
shrink  away  from  me,  and  shudder  as  if  some  cold  wind 
had  suddenly  struck  upon  her.  That  it  was  caused  by  no 
aversion  to  me  was  evident,  for  she  would  the  moment 
after,  as  if  to  make  amends,  give  me  one  of  those  volun- 
tary kisses  that  are  sweeter  than  all  others. 

I  reflected  over  this  gravely,  as  was  my  custom,  but 
could  come  to  no  conclusion.  I  dismissed  it  as  one  of 
those  mysteries  of  maidenhood  which  it  is  not  given  to 
man  to  fathom. 

The  day  came  at  length  on  which  we  were  to  be  mar- 
ried, —  a  glorious  autumnal  day,  on  which  the  sweet  sea- 
son of  fruits  and  flowers  seemed  to  have  copied  the  kings 
of  old,  and  robed  itself  in  its  brightest  purple  and  gold, 
in  order  to  die  with  becoming  splendor.  The  little  village 
church  was  nearly  filled  with  the  bridal  party  and  the 
curious  crowd  who  came  to  see  the  persevering  lover  win 
his  bride.  Elsie  was  calm,  and  grave,  and  beautiful. 
The  sober  beauty  of  the  autumn  itself  seemed  to  tinge 
her  face. 

Once  only  did  she  show  any  emotion.  "When  the  sol- 
emn question  was  put  to  her,  the  answer  to  which  was  to 
decide  her  destinv,  I  felt  her  hand  —  which  was  in  mine 


378  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 

—  tremble.  As  she  gasped  out  a  convulsive  "Yes,"  she 
gave  one  brief,  imploring  glance  at  the  gallery  on  the 
right.  I  placed  the  ring  upon  her  finger,  and  looked  in 
the  direction  in  which  she  gazed.  Hammond  Brake's 
dark  countenance  was  visible  looking  over  the  railings, 
and  his  eyes  were  bent  sternly  on  Elsie.  I  turned  quickly 
round  to  my  bride,  but  her  brief  emotion,  of  whatever 
nature,  had  vanished.  She  was  looking  at  me  anxiously, 
and  smiling  —  somewhat  sadly — through  her  maiden's 
tears. 

I  kissed  her,  and  whispered  a  loving  word  or  two  in 
her  ear,  at  which  she  brightened  ;  and  her  grave,  decorous 
old  father,  and  quaint,  tender-hearted  mother,  kissed  her, 
and  we  rode  all  alone  through  glories  of  the  autumn 
woods  to  our  home. 


II. 

THE    STRANGE   BOOK. 

THE  months  went  by  quickly,  and  we  were  very  happy. 
I  learned  that  Elsie  really  loved  me,  and  of  my  love  for 
her  she  had  proof  long  ago.  I  will  not  say  that  there  was 
no  cloud  upon  our  little  horizon.  There  was  one,  but 
it  was  so  small,  and  appeared  so  seldom,  that  I  scarcely 
feared  it.  The  old  vague  terror  seemed  still  to  attack  my 
wife.  If  T  did  not  know  her  to  be  pure  as  heaven's  snow, 
I  would  have  said  it  was  a  remorse.  At  times  she  scarcely 
appeared  to  hear  what  I  said,  so  deep  would  be  her  rev- 
ery.  Nor  did  those  moods  seem  pleasant  ones.  When 
rapt  in  such,  her  sweet  features  would  contract,  as  if  in  a 
hopeless  effort  to  solve  some  mysterious  problem.  A  sad 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  379 

pain,  as  it  were,  quivered  in  her  white,  drooped  eyelids. 
One  thing  I  particularly  remarked  :  she  spent  hours  at  a 
time  gazing  at  the  west.  There  was  a  small  room  in  our 
house  whose  windows,  every  evening,  flamed  with  the  red 
light  of  the  setting  sun.  Here  Elsie  would  sit  and  gaze 
westward,  so  motionless  and  entranced  that  it  seemed  as 
if  her  soul  was  going  down  with  the  day.  Her  conduct 
to  me  was  curiously  varied.  She  apparently  loved  me 
very  much,  yet  there  were  times  when  she  absolutely 
avoided  me.  I  have  seen  her  strolling  through  the  fields, 
and  left  the  house  with  the  intention  of  joining  her,  but 
the  moment  she  caught  sight  of  me  approaching,  she  has 
fled  into  the  neighboring  copse,  with  so  evident  a  wish 
to  avoid  me  that  it  would  have  been  absolutely  cruel  to 
follow. 

Once  or  twice  the  old  jealousy  of  Hammond  Brake 
crossed  my  mind,  but  I  was  obliged  to  dismiss  it  as  a 
frivolous  suspicion.  Nothing  in  my  wife's  conduct  justi- 
fied any  such  theory.  Brake  visited  us  once  or  twice  a 
week,  —  in  fact,  when  I  returned  from  my  business  in  the 
village,  I  used  to  find  him  seated  in  the  parlor  with  Elsie, 
reading  some  favorite  author,  or  conversing  on  some  novel 
literary  topic ;  but  there  was  no  disposition  to  avoid  my 
scrutiny.  Brake  seemed  to  come  as  a  matter  of  right ; 
and  the  perfect  unconsciousness  of  furnishing  any  grounds 
for  suspicion  with  which  he  acted  was  a  sufficient  answer 
to  my  mind  for  any  wild  doubts  that  my  heart  may  have 
suggested. 

Still  I  could  not  but  remark  that  Brake's  visits  were  in 
some  manner  connected  with  Elsie's  melancholy.  On  the 
days  when  he  had  appeared  and  departed  the  gloom 
seemed  to  hang  more  thickly  than  ever  over  her  head. 
She  sat,  on  such  occasions,  all  the  evening  at  the  western 


380  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 

window,  silently  gazing  at  the  cleft  in  the  hills  through 
which  the  sun  passed  to  his  repose. 

At  last  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  her.  It 
seemed  to  me  to  be  my  duty,  if  she  had  a  sorrow,  to  par- 
take of  it.  I  approached  her  on  the  matter  with  the 
most  perfect  confidence  that  I  had  nothing  to  learn  beyond 
the  existence  of  some  girlish  grief,  which  a  confession  and  a 
few  loving  kisses  would  exorcise  forever. 

"  Elsie,"  I  said  to  her  one  night,  as  she  sat,  according 
to  her  custom,  gazing  westward,  like  those  maidens  of  the 
old  ballads  of  chivalry  watching  for  the  knights  that 
never  came,  —  "  Elsie,  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  dar- 
ling 1  I  have  noticed  a  strange  melancholy  in  you  for 
some  time  past.  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  turned  quickly  round  and  gazed  at  me  with  eyes 
wide  open  and  face  filled  with  a  sudden  fear.  "  Why  do 
you  ask  me  that,  Mark  1 "  she  answered.  "  I  have  noth- 
ing to  tell." 

From  the  strange,  startled  manner  in  which  this  reply 
was  given,  I  felt  convinced  that  she  had  something  to 
tell,  and  instantly  formed  a  determination  to  discover 
what  it  was.  A  pang  shot  through  my  heart  as  I  thought 
that  the  woman  whom  I  held  dearer  than  anything  on 
earth  hesitated  to  trust  me  with  a  petty  secret. 

"  Elsie,"  I  said,  "  don't  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a  grand 
inquisitor,  with  racks  and  thumb-screws  in  readiness  for 
you  if  you  prove  contumacious.  You  need  not  look  at 
me  in  that  frightened  way.  I  'm  not  an  ogre,  child.  I 
don't  breakfast  on  nice,  cosey  little  women  five  months 
married.  Supposing  you  do  owe  a  bill  to  the  milliner,  in 
Boston,  —  what  does  it  matter  ?  I  'm  tolerably  rich. 
How  much  is  it  1 " 

I  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  did  not  owe  any  such 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  381 

bill,  but  it  was  a  mode  of  testing  her.     A  look  of  relief 
passed  over  her  features  as  I  spoke. 

"  Mark,"  she  said,  stroking  my  hair  with  her  little 
hand  and  smiling  faintly,  "you  're  a  goose.  I  don't  owe 
any  bill  to  the  milliner  in  Boston,  and  I  have  no  secret 
worth  knowing.  I  know  I  'm  a  little  melancholy  at 
times,  —  I  feel  weary ;  but  that  is  not  unnatural,  you 
know,  just  now,  Mark  dear,"  -  —  kissing  me  on  the  lips,  — 
"you  must  bear  with  my  moods  for  a  little  while,  until 
there  are  three  of  us,  and  then  I  '11  be  better  company." 

I  knew  what  she  alluded  to,  but,  God  help  me  !  I  felt 
sad  enough  at  the  moment,  though  I  kissed  her  back,  and 
ceased  to  question  her.  I  felt  sad,  because  my  instinct 
told  me  that  she  deceived  me ;  and  it  is  very  hard  to  be 
deceived,  even  in  trifles,  by  those  we  love.  I  left  her 
sitting  at  her  favorite  window,  and  walked  out  into  the 
fields.  I  wanted  to  think. 

1  remained  out  until  I  saw  lights  in  the  parlor  shining 
through  the  dusk  evening ;  then  I  returned  slowly.  As  I 
passed  the  windows,  —  which  were  near  the  ground,  our 
house  being  cottage-built, —  I  looked  in.  Hammond  Brake 
was  sitting  with  my  wife.  She  was  sitting  in  a  rocking-chair 
opposite  to  him,  holding  a  small  volume  open  on  her  lap. 
Brake  was  talking  to  her  very  earnestly,  and  she  was  listen- 
ing to  him  with  an  expression  I  had  never  before  seen  on 
her  countenance.  Awe,  fear,  and  admiration  were  all 
blent  together  in  those  dilating  eyes.  She  seemed  ab- 
sorbed, body  and  soul,  in  what  this  man  said.  I  shuddered 
at  the  sight.  A  vague  terror  seized  upon  me ;  I  hastened 
into  the  house.  As  I  entered  the  room,  rather  suddenly, 
my  wife  started  and  hastily  concealed  the  little  volume 
that  lay  on  her  lap  in  one  of  her  wide  pockets.  As  she 
did  so,  a  loose  leaf  escaped  from  the  volume  and  slowly 


382  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 

fluttered  to  the  floor  unobserved  by  either  her  or  her 
companion.  But  I  had  my  eye  upon  it.  I  felt  that  it 
was  a  clew. 

"What  new  novel  or  philosophical  wonder  have  you 
both  been  poring  over  V'  I  asked,  quite  gayly,  stealthily 
watching  at  the  same  time  the  telltale  embarrassment 
under  which  Elsie  was  laboring. 

Brake,  who  was  not  in  the  least  discomposed,  replied. 
"That,"  said  he,  "is  a  secret  which  must  be  kept  from 
you.  It  is  an  advance  copy,  and  is  not  to  be  shown  to 
any  one  except  your  wife." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  I,  "  I  know  what  it  is.  It  is  your  volume 
of  poems  that  Ticknor  is  publishing.  Well,  I  can  wait 
until  it  is  regularly  for  sale." 

I  knew  that  Brake  had  a  volume  in  the  hands  of  the 
publishing  house  I  mentioned,  with  a  vague  promise  of 
publication  some  time  in  the  present  century.  Hammond 
smiled  significantly,  but  did  not  reply.  He  evidently 
wished  to  cultivate  this  supposed  impression  of  mine. 
Elsie  looked  relieved,  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  I  felt 
more  than  ever  convinced  that  a  secret  was  beneath  all 
this.  So  I  drew  my  chair  over  the  fallen  leaf  that  lay 
unnoticed  on  the  carpet,  and  talked  and  laughed  with 
Hammond  Brake  gayly,  as  if  nothing  was  on  my  mind, 
while  all  the  time  a  great  load  of  suspicion  lay  heavily  at 
my  heart. 

At  length  Hammond  Brake  rose  to  go.  I  wished  him 
good  night,  but  did  not  offer  to  accompany  him  to  the 
door.  My  wife  supplied  this  omitted  courtesy,  as  I  had 
expected.  The  moment  I  was  alone  I  picked  up  the 
book-leaf  from  the  floor.  It  was  not  the  leaf  of  a  volume 
of  poems.  Beyond  that,  however,  I  learned  nothing.  It 
contained  a  string  of  paragraphs  printed  in  the  Biblical 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  383 

fashion,  and  the  language  was  Biblical  in  style.  It  seemed 
to  be  a  portion  of  some  religious  book.  Was  it  possible 
that  my  wife  was  being  converted  to  the  Romish  faith  1 
Yes,  that  was  it.  Brake  was  a  Jesuit  in  disguise,  —  I 
had  heard  of  such  things,  —  and  had  stolen  into  the 
bosom  of  my  family  to  plant  there  his  destructive  errors. 
There  could  be  no  longer  any  doubt  of  it.  This  was 
some  portion  of  a  Romish  book;  —  some  infamous  Pop- 
ish publication.  Fool  that  I  was  not  to  see  it  all  be- 
fore !  But  there  was  yet  time.  I  would  forbid  him 
the  house. 

I  had  just  formed  this  resolution  when  my  wife  entered. 
I  put  the  strange  leaf  in  my  pocket  and  took  my  hat. 

"Why,  you  are  not  going  out,  surely]"  cried  Elsie, 
surprised. 

"  I  have  a  headache,"  I  answered.  "  I  will  take  a  short 
walk." 

Elsie  looked  at  me  with  a  peculiar  air  of  distrust.  Her 
woman's  instinct  told  her  that  there  was  something  wrong. 
Before  she  could  question  me,  however,  I  had  left  the 
room  and  was  walking  rapidly  on  Hammond  Brake's 
track. 

He  heard  the  footsteps,  and  I  saw  his  figure,  black 
against  the  sky,  stop  and  peer  back  through  the  dusk  to 
see  who  was  following  him. 

"  It  is  I,  Brake,"  I  called  out.  "  Stop ;  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you." 

He  stopped,  and  in  a  minute  or  so  we  were  walking 
side  by  side  along  the  road.  My  fingers  itched  at  that 
moment  to  be  on  his  throat.  I  commenced  the  conver- 
sation. 

"  Brake,"  I  said,  "  I  'm  a  very  plain  sort  of  man,  and  I 
never  say  anything  without  good  reason.  What  I  came 


384  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 

after  you  to  tell  you  is,  that  I  don't  wish  you  to  come  to 
my  house  any  more,  or  to  speak  with  Elsie  any  farther 
than  the  ordinary  salutations  go.  It 's  no  joke.  I  'm 
quite  in  earnest." 

Brake  started,  and,  stopping  short,  faced,  me  suddenly 
in  the  road.  "What  have  I  done?"  he  asked.  "You 
surely  are  too  sensible  a  man  to  be  jealous,  Dayton." 

"  0,"  I  answered,  scornfully,  "  not  jealous  in  the  ordi- 
nary sense  of  the  word,  a  bit.  But  I  don't  think  your 
company  good  company  for  my  wife,  Brake.  If  you  will 
have  it  out  of  me,  I  suspect  you  of  being  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic, and  of  trying  to  convert  my  wife." 

A  srnile  shot  across  his  face,  and  I  saw  his  sharp,  white 
teeth  gleam  for  an  instant  in  the  dusk. 

"  Well,  what  if  I  am  a  Papist  1 "  he  said,  with  a  strange 
tone  of  triumph  in  his  voice.  •  "  The  faith  is  not  criminal. 
Besides,  what  proof  have  you  that  I  was  attempting  to 
proselyte  your  wife  ?  " 

"  This,"  said  I,  pulling  the  leaf  from  my  pocket, — 
'•'this  leaf  from  one  of  those  devilish  Papist  books  you 
and  she  were  reading  this  evening.  I  picked  it  up  from 
the  floor.  Proof  enough,  I  think  !  " 

In  an  instant  Brake  had  snatched  the  leaf  from  niy 
hand  and  torn  it  into  atoms. 

"  You  shall  be  obeyed,"  he  said.  "  I  will  not  speak 
with  Elsie  as  long  as  she  is  your  wife.  Good  night.  So 
you  think  I  'm  a  Papist,  Dayton  1  You  're  a  clever  fel- 
low !  "  And  with  rather  a  sneering  chuckle  he  marched 
on  along  the  road  and  vanished  into  the  darkness. 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  385 

III. 
THE   SECRET   DISCOVERED. 

BRAKE  came  no  more.  I  said  nothing  to  Elsie  about 
his  prohibition,  and  his  name  was  never  mentioned.  It 
seemed  strange  to  me  that  she  should  not  speak  of  his 
absence,  and  I  was  very  much  puzzled  by  her  silence. 
Her  moodiness  seemed  to  have  increased,  and,  what  was 
most  remarkable,  in  proportion  as  she  grew  more  and 
more  reserved,  the  intenser  were  the  bursts  of  affection 
which  she  exhibited  for  me.  She  would  strain  me  to 
her  bosom  and  kiss  me,  as  if  she  and  I  were  about  to  be 
parted  forever.  Then  for  hours  she  would  remain  sitting 
at  her  window,  silently  gazing,  with  that  terrible,  wistful 
gaze  of  hers,  at  the  west. 

I  will  confess  to  having  watched  my  wife  at  this  time. 
I  could  not  help  it.  That  some  mystery  hung  about 
her  I  felt  convinced.  I  must  fathom  it  or  die.  Her 
honor  I  never  for  a  moment  doubted  ;  yet  there  seemed 
to  weigh  continually  upon  me  the  prophecy  of  some  aw- 
ful domestic  calamity.  This  time  the  prophecy  was  not 
in  vain. 

About  three  weeks  after  I  had  forbidden  Brake  my 
house,  I  was  strolling  over  my  farm  in  the  evening, 
apparently  inspecting  my  agriculture,  but  in  reality 
speculating  on  that  topic  which  latterly  was  ever  present 
to  me. 

There  was  a  little  knoll  covered  with  evergreen  oaks 
at  the  end  of  the  lawn.  It  was  a  picturesque  spot,  for 
on  one  side  the  bank  went  off  into  a  sheer  precipice  of 
about  eighty  feet  in  depth,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a 
pretty  pool  lay,  that  in  the  summer  time  was  fringed 

25 


386  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 

with  white"  water-lilies.  I  had  thought  of  building  a 
summer-house  in  this  spot,  and  now  my  steps  mechani- 
cally directed  themselves  toward  the  place.  As  I  ap- 
proached I  heard  voices.  I  stopped  and  listened  eagerly. 
A  few  seconds  enabled  me  to  ascertain  that  Hammond 
Brake  and  my  wife  were  in  the  copse  talking  together. 
She  still  followed  him,  then ;  and  he,  scoundrel  that  he 
was,  had  broken  his  promise.  A  fury  seemed  to  fill  my 
veins  as  I  made  this  discovery.  I  felt  the  impulse  strong 
upon  me  to  rush  into  the  grove,  and  then  and  there 
strangle  the  villain  who  was  poisoning  my  peace.  But 
with  a  powerful  effort  I  restrained  myself.  It  was  neces- 
sary that  I  should  overhear  what  was  said.  I  threw 
myself  flat  on  the  grass,  and  so  glided  silently  into  the 
copse  until  I  was  completely  within  ear-shot.  This  was 
what  I  heard. 

My  wife  was  sobbing.  "  So  soon,  —  so  soon  1  0  Ham- 
mond, give  me  a  little  time  ! " 

"I  cannot,  Elsie.  My  chief  orders  me  to  join  him. 
You  must  prepare  to  accompany  me.'* 

"  No,  no  !  "  murmured  Elsie.  "  He  loves  me  so  !  And 
I  love  him.  Our  child,  too,  —  how  can  I  rob  him  of  our 
unborn  babe  1 " 

"Another  sheep  for  our  flock,"  answered  Brake,  sol- 
emnly. "  Elsie,  do  you  forget  your  oath  1  Are  you  one 
of  us,  or  are  you  a  common  hypocrite,  who  will  be  of  us 
until  the  hour  of  self-sacrifice,  and  then  fly  like  a  coward  1 
Elsie,  you  must  leave  to-night." 

"  Ah !  my  husband,  my  husband ! "  sobbed  the  unhappy 
woman. 

"You  have  no  husband,  woman,"  cried  Brake,  harshly. 
"  I  promised  Dayton  not  to  speak  to  you  as  long  as  you 
were  his  wife,  but  the  vow  was  annulled  before  it  was 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  387 

made.  Your  husband  in  God  yet  awaits  you.  You  will 
yet  be  blessed  with  the  true  spouse." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  die,"  cried  Elsie.  "  How 
can  I  ever  forsake  him,  —  he  who  was  so  good  to  me  1 " 

"Nonsense!  no  weakness.  He  is  not  worthy  of  you. 
Go  home  and  prepare  for  your  journey.  You  know 
where  to  meet  me.  I  will  have  everything  ready,  and 
by  daybreak  there  shall  be  no  trace  of  us  left.  Be- 
ware of  permitting  your  husband  to  suspect  anything. 
He  is  not  very  shrewd  at  such  things,  —  he  thought  I 
was  a  Jesuit  in  disguise,  —  but  we  had  better  be  careful. 
Now  go.  You  have  been  too  long  here  already.  Bless 
you,  sister." 

A  few  faint  sobs,  a  rustling  of  Lsaves,  and  I  knew  that 
Brake  was  alone.  I  rose,  and  stepped  silently  into  the 
open  space  in  which  he  stood.  His  back  was  toward  me. 
His  arms  were  lifted  high  over  his  head  with  an  exultant 
gesture,  and  I  could  see  his  profile,  as  it  slightly  turned 
toward  me,  illuminated  with  a  smile  of  scornful  triumph. 
I  put  my  hand  suddenly  on  his  throat  from  behind,  and 
flung  him  on  the  ground  before  he  could  utter  a  cry. 

"Not  a  word,"  I  said,  unclasping  a  short-bladed  knife 
which  I  carried;  " answer  my  questions,  or,  by  heaven, 
I  will  cut  your  throat  from  ear  to  ear  !  " 

He  looked  up  into  my  face  with  an  unflinching  eye,  and 
set  his  lips  as  if  resolved  to  suffer  all. 

"What  are  you1?  Who  are  you?  What  object  have 
you  in  the  seduction  of  my  wife  1 " 

He  smiled,  but  was  silent. 

"  Ah !  you  won't  answer.     We  '11  see." 

I  pressed  the  knife  slowly  against  his  throat.  His  face 
contracted  spasmodically,  but  although  a  thin  red  thread 
of  blood  sprang  out  along  the  edge  of  the  blade,  Brake 


388  MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER. 

remained  mute.  An  idea  suddenly  seized  me.  This  sort 
of  death  had  no  terrors  for  him.  I  would  try  another. 
There  was  the  precipice.  I  was  twice  as  powerful  as  he 
was,  so  I  seized  him  in  my  arms,  and  in  a  moment  trans- 
ported him  to  the  margin  of  the  steep,  smooth  cliff,  the 
edge  of  which  was  garnished  with  the  tough  stems  of  the 
wild  vine.  He  seemed  to  feel  it  was  useless  to  struggle 
with  me,  so  allowed  me  passively  to  roll  him  over  the 
edge.  When  he  was  suspended  in  the  air,  I  gave  him  a 
vine  stem  to  cling  to  and  let  him  go.  He  swung  at 
a  height  of  eighty  feet,  with  face  upturned  and  pale. 
He  dared  not  look  down.  I  seated  myself  on  the  edge  of 
the  cliff,  and  with  my  knife  began  to  cut  into  the  thick 
vine  a  foot  or  two  above  the  place  of  his  grasp.  I  was 
correct  in  my  calculation.  This  terror  was  too  much  for 
him.  As  he  saw  the  notch  in  the  vine  getting  deeper 
and  deeper,  his  determination  gave  way. 

"  I  '11  answer  you,"  he  gasped  out,  gazing  at  me  with 
starting  eyeballs ;  "  what  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  What  are  you  1 "  was  my  question,  as  I  ceased  cutting 
at  the  stem. 

"  A  Mormon,"  was  the  answer,  uttered  with  a  groan. 
"  Take  me  up.  My  hands  are  slipping.  Quick  !  " 

"  And  you  wanted  my  wife  to  follow  you  to  that  infernal 
Salt  Lake  City,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  For  God's  sake,  release  me  !  I  '11  quit  the  place,  never 
to  come  back.  Do  help  me  up,  Dayton,  —  I  'm  falling  !  " 

I  felt  mightily  inclined  to  let  the  villain  drop ;  but  it 
did  not  suit  my  purpose  to  be  hung  for  murder,  so  I 
swung  him  back  again  on  the  sward,  where  he  fell  panting 
and  exhausted. 

"  Will  you  quit  the  place  to-night  ] "  I  said.  "  You  'd 
better.  By  Heaven,  if  you  don't,  I  '11  tell  all  the  men  in 


MY  WIFE'S  TEMPTER.  389 

the  village,  and  we  11  lynch  you,  as  sure  as  your  name  is 
Brake." 

"  I  '11  go,  —  I  '11  go,"  he  groaned.  "  I  swear  never  to 
trouble  you  again." 

"  You  ought  to  be  hanged,  you  villain.     Be  off !  " 

He  slunk  away  through  the  trees  like  a  beaten  dog ; 
and  I  went  home  in  a  state  bordering  on  despair.  I 
found  Elsie  crying.  She  was  sitting  by  the  window  as  of 
old.  I  knew  now  why  she  gazed  so  constantly  at  the 
west.  It  was  her  Mecca.  Something  in  my  face,  I  sup- 
pose, told  her  that  I  was  laboring  under  great  excitement. 
She  rose  startled,  as  soon  as  I  entered  the  room. 

"  Elsie,"  said  I,  "  I  am  come  to  take  you  home." 

"  Home  ?  Why,  I  am  at  home,  am  I  not  ]  What  do 
you  mean  1 " 

"No.  This  is  no  longer  your  home.  You  have  de- 
ceived me.  You  are  a  Mormon.  I  know  all.  You  have 
become  a  convert  to  that  apostle  of  hell,  Brigham  Young, 
and  you  cannot  live  with  me.  I  love  you  still,  Elsie, 
dearly;  but — you  must  go  and  live  with  your  father." 

She  saw  there  was  no  appeal  from  my  word,  and  with 
a  face  hopeless  with  despair  she  arranged  her  dress  and 
passively  went  with  me. 

I  live  in  the  same  village  with  my  wife,  and  yet  am  a 
widower.  She  is  very  penitent,  they  say ;  yet  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  believe  that  one  who  has  allowed  the 
Mormon  poison  to  enter  her  veins  can  ever  be  cured. 
People  say  that  we  shall  come  together  again,  but  I  know 
better.  Mine  is  not  the  first  hearth  that  Mormonism  has 
rendered  desolate. 


390  WHAT  WAS  IT? 


WHAT  WAS  IT  ? 


IT  is,  I  confess,  with  considerable  diffidence  that  I  ap- 
proach the  strange  narrative  which  I  am  about  to  relate. 
The  events  which  I  purpose  detailing  are  of  so  extraordi- 
nary a  character  that  I  ana  quite  prepared  to  meet  with 
an  unusual  amount  of  incredulity  and  scorn.  I  accept 
all  such  beforehand.  I  have,  I  trust,  the  literary  courage 
to  face  unbelief.  I  have,  after  mature  consideration, 
resolved  to  narrate,  in  as  simple  and  straightforward  a 
manner  as  I  can  compass,  some  facts  that  passed  under 
my  observation,  in  the  month  of  July  last,  and  which, 
in  the  annals  of  the  mysteries  of  physical  science,  are 
wholly  unparalleled. 

I  live  at  No.  —  Twenty-sixth  Street,  in  New  York.  The 
house  is  in  some  respects  a  curious  one.  It  has  enjoyed 
for  the  last  two  years  the  reputation  of  being  haunted. 
It  is  a  large  and  stately  residence,  surrounded  by  what 
was  once  a  garden,  but  which  is  now  only  a  green  enclos- 
ure used  for  bleaching  clothes.  The  dry  basin  of  what 
has  been  a  fountain,  and  a  few  fruit-trees  ragged  and 
unpruned,  indicate  that  this  spot  in  past  days  was  a 
pleasant,  shady  retreat,  filled  with  fruits  and  flowers  and 
the  sweet  murmur  of  waters. 

The  house  is  very  spacious.  A  hall  of  noble  size  leads 
to  a  large  spiral  staircase  winding  through  its  centre, 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  391 

while  the  various  apartments  are  of  imposing  dimen- 
sions. It  was  built  some  fifteen  or  twenty  years  since  by 

Mr.  A ,  the  well-known  New  York  merchant,  who  five 

years  ago  threw  the  commercial  world  into  convulsions  by 

a  stupendous  bank  fraud.    Mr.  A ,  as  every  one  knows, 

escaped  to  Europe,  and  died  not  long  after,  of  a  broken 
heart.  Almost  immediately  after  the  news  of  his  decease 
reached  this  country  and  was  verified,  the  report  spread 
in  Twenty-sixth  Street  that  No.  —  was  haunted.  Legal 
measures  had  dispossessed  the  widow  of  its  former  owner, 
and  it  was  inhabited  merely  by  a  care-taker  and  his  wife, 
placed  there  by  the  house-agent  into  whose  hands  it  had 
passed  for  purposes  of  renting  or  sale.  These  people  de- 
clared that  they  were  troubled  with  unnatural  noises. 
Doors  were  opened  without  any  visible  agency.  The 
remnants  of  furniture  scattered  through  the  various  rooms 
were,  during  the  night,  piled  one  upon  the  other  by  un- 
known hands.  Invisible  feet  passed  up  and  down  the 
>  •*•  •*• 

stairs  in  broad  daylight,  accompanied  by  the  rustle  of 
unseen  silk  dresses,  and  the  gliding  of  viewless  hands 
along  the  massive  balusters.  The  care-taker  and  his  wife 
declared  they  would  live  there  no  longer.  The  house- 
agent  laughed,  dismissed  them,  and  put  others  in  their 
place.  The  noises  and  supernatural  manifestations  con- 
tinued. The  neighborhood  caught  up  the  story,  and  the 
house  remained  untenanted  for  three  years.  Several  per- 
sons negotiated  for  it;  but,  somehow,  always  before  the 
bargain  was  closed  they  heard  the  unpleasant  rumors 
and  declined  to  treat  any  further. 

It  was  in  this  state  of  things  that  my  landlady,  who 
at  that  time  kept  a  boarding-house  in  Bleecker  $treet, 
and  who  wished  to  move  further  up  town,  conceived  the 
bold  idea  of  renting  No.  —  Twenty-sixth  Street.  Hap- 


392  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

pening  to  have  in  her  house  rather  a  plucky  and  philo- 
sophical set  of  boarders,  she  laid  her  scheme  before  us, 
stating  candidly  everything  she  had  heard  respecting  the 
ghostly  qualities  of  the  establishment  to  which  she  wished 
to  remove  us.  With  the  exception  of  two  timid  persons, 
—  a  sea-captain  and  a  returned  Californian,  who  imme- 
diately gave  notice  that  they  would  leave,  —  all  of  Mrs. 
Moffat's  guests  declared  that  they  would  accompany  her 
in  her  chivalric  incursion  into  the  abode  of  spirits. 

Our  removal  was  effected  in  the  month  of  May,  and  we 
were  charmed  with  our  new  residence.  The  portion  of 
Twenty-sixth  Street  where  our  house  is  situated,  between 
Seventh  and  Eighth  Avenues,  is  one  of  the  pleasantest 
localities  in  New  York.  The  gardens  back  of  the  houses, 
running  down  nearly  to  the  Hudson,  form,  in  the  sum- 
mer time,  a  perfect  avenue  of  verdure.  The  air  is  pure 
and  invigorating,  sweeping,  as  it  does,  straight  across  the 
river  from  the  Weehawken  heights,  and  even  the  ragged 
garden  which  surrounded  the  house,  although  dfsplaying 
on  washing  days  rather  too  much  clothes-line,  still  gave 
us  a  piece  of  greensward  to  look  at,  and  a  cool  retreat 
in  the  summer  evenings,  where  we  smoked  our  cigars  in 
the  dusk,  and  watched  the  fire-flies  flashing  their  dark- 
lanterns  in  the  long  grass. 

Of  course  we  had  no  sooner  established  ourselves  at 
No.  —  than  we  began  to  expect  the  ghosts.  We  abso- 
lutely awaited  their  advent  with  eagerness.  Our  dinner 
conversation  was  supernatural.  One  of  the  boarders, 
who  had  purchased  Mrs.  Crowe's  "  Night  Side  of  Nature  " 
for  his  own  private  delectation,  was  regarded  as  a  public 
enemy  by  the  entire  household  for  not  having  bought 
twenty  copies.  The  man  led  a  life  of  supreme  wretch- 
edness while  he  was  reading  this  volume.  A  system  of 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  393 

espionage  was  established,  of  which  he  was  the  victim. 
If  he  incautiously  laid  the  book  down  for  an  instant 
and  left  the  room,  it  was  immediately  seized  and  read 
aloud  in  secret  places  to  a  select  few.  I  found  myself  a 
person  of  immense  importance,  it  having  leaked  out  that 
I  was  tolerably  well  versed  in  the  history  of  supernatu- 
ralism,  and  had  once  written  a  story  the  foundation  of 
which  was  a  ghost.  If  a  table  or  a  wainscot  panel  hap- 
pened to  warp  when  we  were  assembled  in  the  large 
drawing-room,  there  was  an  instant  silence,  and  every 
one  was  prepared  for  an  immediate  clanking  of  chains 
and  a  spectral  form. 

After  a  month  of  psychological  excitement,  it  was  with 
the  utmost  dissatisfaction  that  we  were  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge that  nothing  in  the  remotest  degree  approaching 
the  supernatural  had  manifested  itself.  Once  the  black 
butler  asseverated  that  his  candle  had  been  blown  out  by 
some  invisible  agency  while  he  was  undressing  himself 
for  the  night ;  but  as  I  had  more  than  once  discovered 
this  colored  gentleman  in  a  condition  when  one  candle 
must  have  appeared  to  him  like  two,  I  thought  it  possible 
that,  by  going  a  step  further  in  his  potations,  he  might 
have  reversed  this  phenomenon,  and  seen  no  candle  at  all 
where  he  ought  to  have  beheld  one. 

Things  were  in  this  state  when  an  incident  took  place 
so  awful  and  inexplicable  in  its  character  that  my  reason 
fairly  reels  at  the  bare  memory  of  the  occurrence.  It  was 
the  tenth  of  July.  After  dinner  was  over  I  repaired,  with 
my  friend  Dr.  Hammond,  to  the  garden  to  smoke  my 
evening  pipe.  Independent  of  certain  mental  sympathies 
which  existed  between  the  Doctor  and  myself,  we  -were 
linked  together  by  a  vice.  We  both  smoked  opium.  We 
knew  each  other's  secret,  and  respected  it.  We  enjoyed 


394  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

together  that  wonderful  expansion  of  thought,  that  mar- 
vellous intensifying  of  the  perceptive  faculties,  that  bound- 
less feeling  of  existence  when  we  seem  to  have  points  of 
contact  with  the  whole  universe,  —  in  short,  that  unim- 
aginable spiritual  bliss,  which  I  would  not  surrender  for  a 
throne,  and  which  I  hope  you,  reader,  will  never  —  never 
taste. 

Those  hours  of  opium  happiness  which  the  Doctor  and 
I  spent  together  in  secret  were  regulated  with  a  scientific 
accuracy.  We  did  not  blindly  smoke  the  drug  of  para- 
dise, and  leave  our  dreams  to  chance.  While  smoking, 
we  carefully  steered  our  conversation  through  the  bright- 
est and  calmest  channels  of  thought.  We  talked  of  the 
East,  and  endeavored  to  recall  the  magical  panorama  of 
its  glowing  scenery.  We  criticised  the  most  sensuous 
poets,  —  those  who  painted  life  ruddy  with  health,  brim- 
ming with  passion,  happy  in  the  possession  of  youth 
and  strength  and  beauty.  If  we  talked  of  Shakespeare's 
"  Tempest,"  we  lingered  over  Ariel,  and  avoided  Caliban. 
Like  the  Guebers,  we  turned  our  faces  to  the  east,  and 
saw  only  the  sunny  side  of  the  world. 

This  skilful  coloring  of  our  train  of  thought  produced 
in  our  subsequent  visions  a  corresponding  tone.  The 
splendors  of  Arabian  fairy-land  dyed  our  dreams.  We 
paced  that  narrow  strip  of  grass  with  the  tread  and  port 
of  kings.  The  song  of  the  rana  arborea,  while  he  clung 
to  the  bark  of  the  ragged  plum-tree,  sounded  like  the 
strains  of  divine  musicians.  Houses,  walls,  and  streets 
melted  like  rain-clouds,  and  vistas  of  unimaginable  glory 
stretched  away  before  us.  It  was  a. rapturous  compan- 
ionship. We  enjoyed  the  vast  delight  more  perfectly 
because,  even  in  our  most  ecstatic  moments,  we  were 
conscious  of  each  other's  presence.  Our  pleasures,  while 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  395 

individual,  were  still  twin,  vibrating  and  moving  in  mu- 
sical accord. 

On  the  evening  in  question,  the  tenth  of  July,  the 
Doctor  and  myself  drifted  into  an  unusually  metaphysi- 
cal mood.     We  lit  our  large  meerschaums,  filled  with  fine 
Turkish  tobacco,  in  the  core  of  which  burned  a  little 
black  nut  of  opium,  that,  like  the  nut  in  the  fairy  tale, 
held  within  its  narrow  limits  wonders  beyond  the  reach 
of  kings ;  we  paced  to  and  fro,  conversing.     A  strange 
perversity  dominated  the  currents  of  our  thought.     They 
would  not  flow  through  the  sun-lit  channels  into  which  we 
strove  to  divert  them.  LFor  some  unaccountable  reason, 
they  constantly  diverged  into  dark  and  lonesome  beds, 
where  a  continual  gloom  brooded.     It  was  in  vain  that, 
after  our  old  fashion,  we  flung  ourselves  on  the  shores  of 
the  East,  and  talked  of  its  gay  bazaars,  of  the  splendors 
of  the  time  of  Haroun,   of  harems  and  golden  palaces. 
Black  afreets  continually  arose  from  the  depths  of  our 
talk,  and  expanded,  like  the  one  the  fisherman  released 
from   the   copper   vessel,  until  they  blotted  everything 
bright  from  our  vision.     Insensibly,   we  yielded  to  the 
occult  force  that  swayed  us,  and  indulged  in  gloomy  spec- 
ulation.    We  had  talked  some  time  upon  the  proneness 
of  the  human  mind  to  mysticism,  and  the  almost  univer- 
sal love  of  the  terrible,  when.  Hammond  suddenly  said 
to  me,  "  What  do  you  consider  to  be  the  greatest  element 
of  terror]" 

The  question  puzzled  me.  That  many  things  were 
terrible,  I  knew.  Stumbling  over  a  corpse  in  the  dark ; 
beholding,  as  I  once  did,  a  woman  floating  down  a  deep 
and  rapid  river,  with  wildly  lifted  arms,  and  awful,  up- 
turned face,  uttering,  as  she  drifted,  shrieks  that  rent 
one's  heart,  while  we,  the  spectators,  stood  frozen  at  a 


396  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

window  which  overhung  the  river  at  a  height  of  sixty 
feet,  unable  to  make  the  slightest  effort  to  save  her,  but 
dumbly  watching  her  last  supreme  agony  and  her  dis- 
appearance. A  shattered  wreck,  with  no  life  visible,  en- 
countered floating  listlessly  on  the  ocean,  is  a  terrible 
object,  for  it  suggests  a  huge  terror,  the  proportions  of 
which  are  veiled.  But  it  now  struck  me,  for  the  first 
time,  that  there  must  be  one  great  and  ruling  embodiment 
of  fear,  —  a  King  of  Terrors,  to  which  all  others  must 
succumb.  What  might  it  be  I  To  what  train  of  circum- 
stances would  it  owe  its  existence  1 

11 1  confess,  Hammond,"  I  replied  to  my  friend,  "  I 
never  considered  the  subject  before.  That  there  must  be 
one  Something  more  terrible  than  any  other  thing,  I  feel. 
I  cannot  attempt,  however,  even  the  most  vague  defini- 
tion." 

"  I  am  somewhat  like  you,  Harry,"  he  answered.  "  I 
feel  my  capacity  to  experience  a  terror  greater  than  any- 
thing yet  conceived  by  the  human  mind ;  —  something 
combining  in  fearful  and  unnatural  amalgamation  hitherto 
supposed  incompatible  elements.  The  calling  of  the  voices 
in  Brockden  Brown's  novel  of  *  Wieland '  is  awful ;  so  is 
the  picture  of  the  Dweller  of  the  Threshold,  in  Bulwer's 
'Zanoni';  but,"  he  added,  shaking  his  head  gloomily, 
"there  is  something  more  horrible  still  than  these." 

"Look  here,  Hammond,"  I  rejoined,  "let  us  drop  this 
kind  of  talk,  for  heaven's  sake  !  We  shall  suffer  for  it, 
depend  on  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me  to-night," 
he  replied,  "but  my  brain  is  running  upon  all  sorts  of 
weird  and  awful  thoughts.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  write  a 
story  like  Hoffman,  to-night,  if  I  were  only  master  of  a 
literary  style." 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  397 

"Well,  if  we  are  going  to  be  Hoffmanesque  in  our  talk, 
I  'm  off  to  bed.  Opium  and  nightmares  should  never  be 
brought  together.  How  sultry  it  is  !  Good-night,  Ham- 
mond." 

"  Good-night,  Harry.     Pleasant  dreams  to  you." 

"To  you,  gloomy  wretch,  afreets,  ghouls,  and  enchant- 
ers." 

We  parted,  and  each  sought  his  respective  chamber.  I 
undressed  quickly  and  got  into  bed,  taking  with  me,  ac- 
cording to  my  usual  custom,  a  book,  over  which  I  gener- 
ally read  myself  to  sleep.  I  opened  the  volume  as  soon 
as  I  had  laid  my  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  instantly  flung 
it  to  the  other  side  of  the  room.  It  was  Goudon's  "  His- 
tory of  Monsters,"  —  a  curious  French  work,  which  I  had 
lately  imported  from  Paris,  but  which,  in  the  state  of 
mind  I  had  then  reached,  was  anything  but  an  agreeable 
companion.  I  resolved  to  go  to  sleep  at  once;  so,  turn- 
ing down  my  gas  until  nothing  but  a  little  blue  point  of 
light  glimmered  on  the  top  of  the  tube,  I  composed  my- 
self to  rest. 

The  room  was  in  total  darkness.  The  atom  of  gas  that 
still  remained  alight  did  not  illuminate  a  distance  of 
three  inches  round  the  burner.  I  desperately  drew  my 
arm  across  my  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  even  the.  darkness, 
and  tried  to  think  of  nothing.  It  was  in  vain.  The 
txmfotmded  themes  touched  on  by  Hammond  in  the  gar- 
den kept  obtruding  themselves  on  my  brain.  I  battled 
against  them.  I  erected  ramparts  of  would-be  blankness 
of  intellect  to  keep  them  out.  They  still  crowded  upon 
me.  While  I  was  lying  still  as  a  corpse,  hoping  that  by 
a  perfect  physical  inaction  I  should  hasten  mental  repose, 
an  awful  incident  occurred.  A  Something  dropped,  as  it 
seemed,  from  the  ceiling,  plumb  upon  my  chest,  and  the 


398  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

next  instant  I  felt  two  bony  hands  encircling  my  throat, 
endeavoring  to  choke  me. 

I  am  no  coward,  and  am  possessed  of  considerable  phys- 
ical strength.  The  suddenness  of  the  attack,  instead  of 
stunning  me,rstrung  every  nerve  to  its  highest  tension. 
My  body  acted  from  instinct,  before  my  brain  had  time 
to  realize  the  terrors  of  my  position.  In  an  instant  I 
wound  two  muscular  arms  around  the  creature,  and 
squeezed  it,  with  all  the  strength  of  despair,  against  my 
chest.  In  a  few  seconds  the  bony  hands  that  had  fas- 
tened on  my  throat  loosened  their  hold,  and  I  was  free  to 
breathe  once  more.  Then  commenced  a  struggle  of  awful 
intensity.  Immersed  in  the  most  profound  darkness,  to- 
tally ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  Thing  by  which  I  was 
so  suddenly  attacked,  finding  my  grasp  slipping  every 
moment,  by  reason,  it  seemed  to  me,  of  the  entire  naked- 
ness of  my  assailant,  bitten  with  sharp  teeth  in  the  shoul- 
der, neck,  and  chest,  having  every  moment  to  protect  my 
throat  against  a  pair  of  sinewy,  agile  hands,  which  my  ut- 
most efforts  could  not  confine,  — these  were  a  combination 
of  circumstances  to  combat  which  required  all  the  strength, 
skill,  and  courage  that  I  possessed. 

At  last,  after  a  silent,  deadly,  exhausting  struggle,  I 
got  my  assailant  under  by  a  series  of  incredible  efforts  of 
strength.  Once  pinned,  with  my  knee  on  what  I  made 
out  to  be  its  chest,  I  knew  that  I  was  victor.  I  rested 
for  a  moment  to  breathe.  I  heard  the  creature  beneath 
me  panting  in  the  darkness,  and  felt  the  violent  throb- 
bing of  a  heart.  It  was  apparently  as  exhausted  as 
I  was ;  that  was  one  comfort.  At  this  moment  I  re- 
membered that  I  usually  placed  under  my  pillow,  be- 
fore going  to  bed,  a  large  yellow  silk  pocket-handker- 
chief. I  felt  for  it  instantly;  it  was  there.  In  a  few 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  399 

seconds  more  I  had,  after  a  fashion,  pinioned  the  crea- 
ture's arms. 

I  now  felt  tolerably  secure.  There  was  nothing  more 
to  be  done  but  to  turn  on  the  gas,  and,  having  first  seen 
what  my  midnight  assailant  was  like,  arouse  the  house- 
hold. I  will  confess  to  being  actuated  by  a  certain  pride 
in  not  giving  the  alarm  before;  I  wished  to  make  the 
capture  alone  and  unaided. 

Never  losing  my  hold  for  an  instant,  I  slipped  from  the 
bed  to  the  floor,  dragging  my  captive  with  me.  I  had 
but  a  few  steps  to  make  to  reach  the  gas-burner ;  these  I 
made  with  the  greatest  caution,  holding  the  creature  in  a 
grip  like  a  vice.  At  last  I  got  within  arm's-length  of  the 
tiny  speck  of  blue  light  which  told  me  where  the  gas- 
burner  lay.  Quick  as  lightning  I  released  my  grasp  with 
one  hand  and  let  on  the  full  flood  of  light.  Then  I  turned 
to  look  at  my  captive. 

I  cannot  even  attempt  to  give  any  definition  of  my  sen- 
sations the  instant  after  I  turned  on  the  gas.  I  suppose 
I  must  have  shrieked  with  terror,  for  in  less  than  a  minute 
afterward  my  room  was  crowded  with  the  inmates  of  the 
house.  I  shudder  now  as  I  think  of  that  awful  moment. 
/  saw  nothing  !  Yes ;  I  had  one  arm  firmly  clasped  round 
a  breathing,  panting,  corporeal  shape,  my  other  hand 
gripped  with  all  its  strength  a  throat  as  warm,  and  ap- 
parently fleshly,  as  my  own ;  and  yet,  with  this  living 
substance  in  my  grasp,  with  its  body  pressed  against  my 
own,  and  all  in  the  bright  glare  of  a  large  jet  of  gas,  I 
absolutely  beheld  nothing !  Not  even  an  outline,  —  a 
vapor ! 

I  do  not,  even  at  this  hour,  realize  the  situation  in  which 
I  found  myself.  I  cannot  recall  the  astounding  incident 
thoroughly.  Imagination  in  vain  tries  to  compass  the 
awful  paradox. 


400  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

It  breathed.  I  felt  its  warm  breath  upon  my  cheek. 
It  struggled  fiercely.  It  had  hands.  They  clutched  me. 
Its  skin  was  smooth,  like  my  own.  There  it  lay,  pressed 
close  up  against  me,  solid  as  stone,  —  and  yet  utterly 
invisible ! 

I  wonder  that  I  did  not  faint  or  go  mad  on  the  instant. 
Some  wonderful  instinct  must  have  sustained  me;  for, 
absolutely,  in  place  of  loosening  my  hold  on  the  terrible 
Enigma,  I  seemed  to  gain  an  additional  strength  in  my 
moment  of  horror,  and  tightened  my  grasp  with  such  won- 
derful force  that  I  felt  the  creature  shivering  with  agony. 

Just  then  Hammond  entered  my  room  at  the  head  of 
the  household.  As  soon  as  he  beheld  my  face  —  which, 
I  suppose,  must  have  been  an  awful  sight  to  look  at  — 
he  hastened  forward,  crying,  "  Great  heaven,  Harry ! 
what  has  happened1?" 

"  Hammond  !  Hammond  ! "  I  cried,  "  come  here.  0, 
this  is  awful !  I  have  been  attacked  in  bed  by  something 
or  other,  which  I  have  hold  of;  but  I  can't  see  it,  —  I 
can't  see  it !  " 

Hammond,  doubtless  struck  by  the  unfeigned  horror 
expressed  in  my  countenance,  made  one  or  two  steps  for- 
ward with  an  anxious  yet  puzzled  expression.  A  very 
audible  titter  burst  from  the  remainder  of  my  visitors. 
This  suppressed  laughter  made  me  furious.  To  laugh  at 
a  human  being  in  my  position  !  It  was  the  worst  species 
of  cruelty.  Now,  I  can  understand  why  the  appearance 
of  a  man  struggling  violently,  as  it  would  seem,  with  an 
airy  nothing,  and  calling  for  assistance  against  a  vision, 
should  have  appeared  ludicrous.  Then,  so  great  was  my 
rage  against  the  mocking  crowd  that  had  I  the  power  I 
would  have  stricken  them  dead  where  they  stood. 

"  Hammond  !  Hammond  !  "  I  cried  again,  despairingly, 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  401 

"  for  God's  sake  come  to  me.  I  can  hold  the  —  the  thing 
but  a  short  while  longer.  It  is  overpowering  me.  Help 
me  !  Help  me  ! " 

"  Harry,"  whispered  Hammond,  approaching  me,  "  you 
have  been  smoking  too  much  opium." 

"  I  swear  to  you,  Hammond,  that  this  is  no  vision,"  I 
answered,  in  the  same  low  tone.  "  Don't  you  see  how  it 
shakes  my  whole  frame  with  its  struggles  1  If  you  don't 
believe  me,  convince  yourself.  Feel  it,  —  touch  it." 

Hammond  advanced  and  laid  his  hand  in  the  spot  I 
indicated.  A  wild  cry  of  horror  burst  from  him.  He 
had  felt  it ! 

In  a  moment  he  had  discovered  somewhere  in  my  room 
a  long  piece  of  cord,  and  was  the  next  instant  winding  it 
and  knotting  it  about  the  body  of  the  unseen  being  that 
I  clasped  in  my  arms. 

"  Harry,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse,  agitated  voice,  for, 
though  he  preserved  his  presence  of  mind,  he  was  deeply 
moved,  "  Harry,  it 's  all  safe  now.  You  may  let  go,  old 
fellow,  if  you  're  tired.  The  Thing  can't  move." 

I  was  utterly  exhausted,  and  I  gladly  loosed  my  hold. 

Hammond  stood  holding  the  ends  of  the  cord  that  bound 
the  Invisible,  twisted  round  his  hand,  while  before  him,  self- 
supporting  as  it  were,  he  beheld  a  rope  laced  and  inter- 
laced, and  stretching  tightly  around  a  vacant  space.  I 
never  saw  a  man  look  so  thoroughly  stricken  with  awe. 
Nevertheless  his  face  expressed  all  the  courage  and  deter- 
mination which  I  knew  him  to  possess.  His  ftps,  although 
white,  were  set  firmly,  and  one  could  perceive  at  a  glance 
that,  although  stricken  with  fear,  he  was  not  daunted. 

The  confusion  that  ensued  among  the  guests  of  the 
house  who  were  witnesses  of  this  extraordinary  scene  be- 
tween Hammond  and  myself,  —  who  beheld  the  panto- 

26 


402  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

mime  of  binding  this  struggling  Something,  —  who  beheld 
me  almost  sinking  from  physical  exhaustion  when  my  task 
of  jailer  was  over,  —  the  confusion  and  terror  that  took 
possession  of  the  bystanders,  when  they  saw  all  this,  was 
beyond  description.  The  weaker  ones  fled  from  the  apart- 
ment. The  few  who  remained  clustered  near  the  door 
and  could  not  be  induced  to  approach  Hammond  and 
his  Charge.  Still  incredulity  broke  out  through  their 
terror.  They  had  not  the  courage  to  satisfy  themselves, 
and  yet  they  doubted.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  begged  of 
some  of  the  men  to  come  near  and  convince  themselves 
by  touch  of  the  existence  in  that  room  of  a  living  being 
which  was  invisible.  They  were  incredulous,  but  did 
not  dare  to  undeceive  themselves.  How  could  a  solid, 
living,  breathing  body  be  invisible,  they  asked.  My  reply 
was  this.  I  gave  a  sign  to  Hammond,  and  both  of  us  — 
conquering  our  fearful  repugnance  to  touch  the  invisible 
creature  —  lifted  it  from  the  ground,  manacled  as  it  was, 
and  took  it  to  my  bed.  Its  weight  was  about  that  of  a 
boy  of  fourteen. 

"Now,  my  friends,"  I  said,  as  Hammond  and  myself 
held  the  creature  suspended  over  the  bed,  "  I  can  give 
you  self-evident  proof  that  here  is  a  solid,  ponderable 
body,  which,  nevertheless,  you  cannot  see.  Be  good 
enough  to  watch  the  surface  of  the  bed  attentively." 

I  was  astonished  at  my  own  courage  in  treating  this 
strange  event  so  calmly ;  but  I  had  recovered  from  my 
first  terror,  and  felt  a  sort  of  scientific  pride  in  the  affair, 
which  dominated  every  other  feeling. 

The  eyes  of  the  bystanders  were  immediately  fixed  on 
my  bed.  At  a  given  signal  Hammond  and  I  let  the  crea- 
ture fall.  There  was  the  dull  sound  of  a  heavy  body 
alighting  on  a  soft  mass.  The  timbers  of  the  bed  creaked. 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  403 

A  deep  impression  marked  itself  distinctly  on  the  pillow, 
and  on  the  bed  itself.  The  crowd  who  witnessed  this  gave 
a  low  cry,  and  rushed  from  the  room.  Hammond  and  I 
were  left  alone  with  our  Mystery. 

We  remained  silent  for  some  time,  listening  to  the  low, 
irregular  breathing  of  the  creature  on  the  bed,  and  watch- 
ing the  rustle  of  the  bed-clothes  as  it  impotently  struggled 
to  free  itself  from  confinement.  Then  Hammond  spoke. 

"  Harry,  this  is  awful." 

"Ay,  awful." 

"  But  not  unaccountable." 

"  Not  unaccountable  !  What  do  you  mean  1  Such  a 
thing  has  never  occurred  since  the  birth  of  the  world.  I 
know  not  what  to  think,  Hammond.  God  grant  that  I 
am  not  mad,  and  that  this  is  not  an  insane  fantasy !  " 

"  Let  us  reason  a  little,  Harry.  Here  is  a  solid  body 
which  we  touch,  but  which  we  cannot  see.  The  fact  is 
so  unusual  that  it  strikes  us  with  terror.  Is  there  no  par- 
allel, though,  for  such  a  phenomenon  1  Take  a  piece  of 
pure  glass.  It  is  tangible  and  transparent.  A  certain 
chemical  coarseness  is  all  that  prevents  its  being  so  en- 
tirely transparent  as  to  be  totally  invisible.  It  is  not 
theoretically  impossible,  mind  you,  to  make  a  glass  which 
shall  not  reflect  a  single  ray  of  light,  —  a  glass  so  pure 
and  homogeneous  in  its  atoms  that  the  rays  from  the 
sun  will  pass  through  it  as  they  do  through  the  air,  re- 
fracted but  not  reflected.  We  do  not  see  the  air,  and  yet 
we  feel  it." 

"  That 's  all  very  well,  Hammond,  but  these  are  inani- 
mate substances.  Glass  does  not  breathe,  air  does  not 
breathe.  This  thing  has  a  heart  that  palpitates,  —  a  will 
that  moves  it,  —  lungs  that  play,  and  inspire  and  respire." 

ft  You  forget  the  phenomena  of  which  we  have  so  often 


404  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

heard  of  late,"  answered  the  Doctor,  gravely.  "At  the 
meetings  called  '  spirit  circles,'  invisible  hands  have  been 
thrust  into  the  hands  of  those  persons  round  the  table,  — 
warm,  fleshly  hands  that  seemed  to  pulsate  with  mortal 
life." 

"  What  1     Do  you  think,  then,  that  this  thing  is  —  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  was  the  solemn  reply ;  "  but 
please  the  gods  I  will,  with  your  assistance,  thoroughly 
investigate  it." 

We  watched  together,  smoking  many  pipes,  all  night 
long,  by  the  bedside  of  the  unearthly  being  that  tossed 
and  panted  until  it  was  apparently  wearied  out.  Then 
we  learned  by  the  low,  regular  breathing  that  it  slept. 

The  next  morning  the  house  was  all  astir.  The  board- 
ers congregated  on  the  landing  outside  my  room,  and 
Hammond  and  myself  were  lions.  We  had  to  answer  a 
thousand  questions  as  to  the  state  of  our  extraordinary 
prisoner,  for  as  yet  not  one  person  in  the  house  except 
ourselves  could  be  induced  to  set  foot  in  the  apartment. 

The  creature  was  awake.  This  was  evidenced  by  the 
convulsive  manner  in  which  the  bed-clothes  were  moved 
in  its  efforts  to  escape.  There  was  something  truly  ter- 
rible in  beholding,  as  it  were,  those  second-hand  indica- 
tions of  the  terrible  writhings  and  agonized  struggles  for 
liberty  which  themselves  were  invisible. 

Hammond  and  myself  had  racked  our  brains  during  the 
long  night  to  discover  some  means  by  which  we  might 
realize  the  shape  and  general  appearance  of  the  Enigma. 
As  well  as  we  could  make  out  by  passing  our  hands  over 
the  creature's  form,  its  outlines  and  lineaments  were  hu- 
man. There  was  a  mouth ;  a  round,  smooth  head  with- 
out hair;  a  nose,  which,  however,  was  little  elevated  above 
the  cheeks ;  and  its  hands  and  feet  felt  like  those  of  a 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  405 

boy.  At  first  we  thought  of  placing  the  being  on  a 
smooth  surface  and  tracing  its  outline  with  chalk,  as 
shoemakers  trace  the  outline  of  the  foot.  This  plan  was 
given  up  as  being  of  no  value.  Such  an  outline  would 
give  not  the  slightest  idea  of  its  conformation. 

A  happy  thought  struck  me.  We  would  take  a  cast  of 
it  in  plaster  of  Paris.  This  would  give  us  the  solid  fig- 
ure, and  satisfy  all  our  wishes.  But  how  to  do  it  1  The 
movements  of  the  creature  would  disturb  the  setting  of 
the  plastic  covering,  and  distort  the  mould.  Another 
thought.  Why  not  give  it  chloroform  ]  It  had  respira- 
tory organs,  —  that  was  evident  by  its  breathing.  Once 
reduced  to  a  state  of  insensibility,  we  could  do  with  it 

what  we  would.     Doctor  X was  sent  for ;  and  after 

the  worthy  physician  had  recovered  from  the  first  shock 
of  amazement,  he  proceeded  to  administer  the  chloroform. 
In  three  minutes  afterward  we  were  enabled  to  remove 
the  fetters  from  the  creature's  body,  and  a  modeller  was 
busily  engaged  in  covering  the  invisible  form  with  the 
moist  clay.  In  five  minutes  more  we  had  a  mould,  and 
before  evening  a  rough  fac-simile  of  the  Mystery.  It  was 
shaped  like  a  man,  — distorted,  uncouth,  and  horrible,  but 
still  a  man.  It  was  small,  not  over  four  feet  and  some 
inches  in  height,  and  its  limbs  revealed  a  muscular  de- 
velopment that  was  unparalleled.  Its  face  surpassed  in 
hideousness  anything  I  had  ever  seen.  Gustave  Dore, 
or  Callot,  or  Tony  Johannot,  never  conceived  anything  so 
horrible.  There  is  a  face  in  one  of  the  latter's  illustra- 
tions to  Un  Voyage  oil  il  vous  plaira,  which  somewhat 
approaches  the  countenance  of  this  creature,  but  does  not 
equal  it.  It  was  the  physiognomy  of  what  I  should  fancy 
a  ghoul  might  be.  It  looked  as  if  it  was  capable  of  feed- 
ing on  human  flesh. 


406  WHAT  WAS  IT? 

Having  satisfied  our  curiosity,  and  bound  every  one  in 
the  house  to  secrecy,  it  became  a  question  what  was  to 
be  done  with  our  Enigma1?  It  was  impossible  that  we 
should  keep  such  a  horror  in  our  house ;  it  was  equally 
impossible  that  such  an  awful  being  should  be  let  loose 
upon  the  world.  I  confess  that  I  would  have  gladly 
voted  for  the  creature's  destruction.  But  who  would 
shoulder  the  responsibility  ?  Who  would  undertake  the 
execution  of  this  horrible  semblance  of  a  human  being  ] 
Day  after  day  this  question  was  deliberated  gravely.  The 
boarders  all  left  the  house.  Mrs.  Moffat  was  in  despair, 
and  threatened  Hammond  and  myself  with  all  sorts  of 
legal  penalties  if  we  did  not  remove  the  Horror.  Our  an- 
swer was,  "  We  will  go  if  you  like,  but  we  decline  taking 
this  creature  with  us.  Remove  it  yourself  if  you  please. 
It  appeared  in  your  house.  On  you  the  responsibility 
rests."  To  this  there  was,  of  course,  no  answer.  Mrs. 
Moffat  could  not  obtain  for  love  or  money  a  person  who 
would  even  approach  the  Mystery. 

The  most  singular  part  of  the  affair  was  that  we  were 
entirely  ignorant  of  what  the  creature  habitually  fed  on. 
Everything  in  the  way  of  nutriment  that  we  could  think 
of  was  placed  before  it,  but  was  never  touched.  It  was 
awful  to  stand  by,  day  after  day,  and  see  the  clothes 
toss,  and  hear  the  hard  breathing,  and  know  that  it  was 
starving. 

Ten,  twelve  days,  a  fortnight  passed,  and  it  still  lived. 
The  pulsations  of  the  heart,  however,  were  daily  growing 
fainter,  and  had  now  nearly  ceased.  It  was  evident  that 
the  creature  was  dying  for  want  of  sustenance.  While 
this  terrible  life-struggle  was  going  on,  I  felt  miserable. 
I  could  not  sleep.  Horrible  as  the  Creature  was,  it  was 
pitiful  to  think  of  the  pangs  it  was  suffering. 


WHAT  WAS  IT?  407 

At  last  it  died.  Hammond  and  I  found  it  cold  and 
stiff  one  morning  in  the  bed.  The  heart  had  ceased  to 
beat,  the  lungs  to  inspire.  We  hastened  to  bury  it  in  the 
garden.  It  was  a  strange  funeral,  the  dropping  of  that 
viewless  corpse  into  the  damp  hole.  The  cast  of  its  form 

I  gave  to  Doctor  X ,  who  keeps  it  in  his  museum  in 

Tenth  Street. 

As  I  am  on  the  eve  of  a  long  journey  from  which  I  may 
not  return,  J  have  drawn  up  this  narrative  of  an  event 
the  most  singular  that  has  ever  come  to  my  knowledge. 


408  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 


DUKE  HUMPHEEY'S  DINJSTEK  * 


"  HAVE  we  no  more  coal,  Agnes  1 " 

"  No  more." 

"  What  the  deuce  are  we  going  to  do  for  fire  1 " 

"  I  have  n't  the  slightest  idea,  Dick.  You  're  clever. 
Why  don't  you  invent  some  way  of  warming  one's  self 
without  the  aid  of  fire  1 " 

"  If  you  were  a  man  I  could  box  with  you,"  said  Dick, 
looking  meditatively  at  his  wife  as  if  wondering  whether 
she  could  stand  a  round  or  two.  "  Boxing  warms  one  up 
famously ;  but  then  we  have  no  gloves." 

"  No,"  said  Agnes,  with  a  laugh,  "  and  we  shall  have 
no  shoes  either  in  a  very  short  time,"  —  and  she  pushed 
out,  as  she  spoke,  a  little  foot  with  a  dilapidated  slipper 
on  it. 

"  What  a  funny  thing  it  is  to  have  no  money,  Agnes ! " 
said  Dick,  gazing  at  a  very  small  fire  which  smouldered 
in  the  grate,  with  a  rather  contemplative  air.  "  Do  you 
know  that,  if  it  was  n't  so  confoundedly  cold,  I  'd  rather 
enjoy  poverty.  Now  in  summer-time  there  must  be 
something  very  piquant  in  misery." 

*  O'Brien  wrote  a  little  comedy  on  the  same  subject  treated  in 
this  story,  which  was  produced  at  Wallack's  Theatre,  February 
4th,  1856,  with  Mr.  Lester  Wallack  as  Burdoon,  and  Mrs.  Hoey  as 
Agnes.  —  ED. 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  409 

"  Only  to  think,"  answered  Agnes,  "  of  the  thousands 
of  dollars  that  I  've  thrown  away  on  follies,  when  a  tenth 
part  of  the  sum  would  be  a  perfect  dream  of  happiness 
now." 

"At  present  five  dollars  would  present  as  magnifi- 
cent an  appearance  as  the  English  national  debt  in  gold 
sovereigns." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  ball  at  which  you  first  pro- 
posed to  me,  Dick  ] " 

"  Don't  1 1 " 

"  The  large,  lofty  rooms,  glowing  with  burnished  gold 
and  soft  lights ;  —  the  carpets,  with  their  elastic,  mossy 
pile,  into  which  one's  feet  sank  so  far  and  so  pleasantly 
that  they  became  loath  to  leave  their  nests^  making  one 
lounge  lazily  instead  of  walking; — the  conservatory,  dimly 
lit  with  colored  lamps,  where  tropical  leaves  nodded 
heavily,  as  if  bathed  in  Eastern  dreams,  and  the  rich  scent 
of  the  tuberoses  wandered  through  the  trees  like  the 
souls  of  dead  flowers  roaming  in  search  of  some  bloomy 
paradise  ;  —  the  music  streaming  through  the  wide  doors 
of  the  dancing-rooms,  and  quivering  off  into  the  distance ; 
the  rustle  of  rich  silks ;  the  murmur  of  the  thousand 
voices ;  the  light ;  the  perfume  ;  the  glory  of  youth  and 
joy  spreading  over  everything  like  an  atmosphere  of 
human  sunshine  in  which  myriads  of  gay  and  splendid 
butterflies  floated.  Don't  you  remember,  Dick  1 " 

"  I  do,"  answered  Dick,  with  rather  a  sad  smile,  and  a 
glance  round  the  wretched  room  in  which  they  were  sit- 
ting. "  I  remember  well  the  glories  of  the  life  in  which 
you  were  born,  and  the  contrast,  strange  enough,  with 
the  life  to  which  I  have  brought  you.  You  have  de- 
scribed the  past ;  let  me  describe  the  present.  A  fourth- 
story  room  in  a  tumble-down  tenement-house  in  the 


410  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 

filthiest  part  of  Mulberry  Street.  German  shoemakers 
and  Irish  washerwomen  above  and  below  us.  No  furni- 
ture save  a  table  and  a  pallet-bed.  A  couple  of  old  wine- 
boxes  to  sit  on,  in  place  of  chairs.  Two  feet  of  snow  on  the 
ground,  and  no  coal ;  an  exceedingly  healthy  and  prom- 
ising hunger  gnawing  at  both  of  us,  and  no  money  to  buy 
food.  All  our  available  goods  sold  or  pawned  long  ago. 
Repudiated  by  our  relatives  because  we  chose  to  marry 
each  other  on  the  ridiculous  basis  of  mutual  affection. 
All  our  efforts  to  obtain  work  being  constantly  frustrated 
by  either  Providence  or  his  Satanic  Majesty.  Just  enough 
of  inconvenient  pride  left  in  us  to  prevent  us  from  beg- 
ging. And  I  think,  my  dear  Agnes,  you  have  as  pretty  a 
case  for  suicide  as  ever  came  up  in  evidence  before  a  Paris 
police  court,  Don't  you  feel  like  a  pan  of  charcoal  and 
a  last  embrace  1  or  a  dose  of  strychnine  and  a  despairing 
letter  to  our  friends  1  I  would  offer  you  a  pair  of  pistols 
and  a  mutual  shooting  arrangement,  but  at  present  my 
account  at  the  Merchants'  Bank  is  rather  confused,  and  I 
do  not  like  to  draw  a  check  for  any  amount  until  it  is 
settled." 

And  the  young  husband  laughed  as  heartily  as  if  the 
whole  thing  were  a  sort  of  comedy  which  he  was  rehears- 
ing, and  which  he  thought  he  was  doing  exceedingly 
well. 

"  Dick,"  said  his  wife,  very  earnestly,  coming  round  to 
where  her  husband  sat,  and  kissing  him  gently  on  the 
forehead,  —  "Dick,  you  are  jesting,  are  you  not?  You 
have  no  such  ideas,  I  trust  ? " 

"  Jesting  1  Of  course  I  am,  you  dear  little  puss  !  Of 
all  the  unphilosophical  things  a  man  can  do,  killing  him- 
self is  about  the  most  unphilosophical.  To  kill  another 
man  is  unphilosophical,  because  the  chances  are  ten  to  one 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  411 

that  the  murder  will  be  discovered,  and  the  perpetrator 
hanged.  Therefore,  murder  is  only  a  devious  way  of  com- 
mitting suicide,  with  the  additional  disadvantage  of  hav- 
ing killed  a  fellow-creature.  But,  as  far  as  regards  the 
individual,  suicide  is  still  more  unphilosophical  than  mur- 
der, for  you.  do  not  allow  yourself  even  a  chance  of  escape. 
We  may  have  to  die  of  starvation,  my  dear  little  Mentor, 
though  I  think  it  unlikely.  If  we  have,  however,  the  best 
thing  we  can  do  is  to  use  all  the  means  in  our  power  to 
avert  the  unpleasant  occurrence,  and,  if  it  comes,  meet  it. 
manfully,  —  you  may  say  womanfully,  if  you  choose.  But 
if  we  were  to  kill  ourselves  by  poison  in  order  to  avoid 
dying  twenty  hours  later  of  starvation,  don't  you  think 
we  should  be  doing  rather  an  absurd  thing  1  Particularly 
if,  after  we  were  dead,  our  spirits  discovered  that  Provi- 
dence would  have  sent  us,  at  the  nineteenth  hour,  some 
guardian  angel,  in  shape  of  a  friend,  who  would  have 
relieved  us  from  all  our  misery.  No,  my  dear,  we  won't 
have  any  prussic  acid,  or  French  exits  from  life.  When 
we  are  too  weak  to  stand  up,  we  will  lie  down  side  by  side ; 
and  when  we  are  too  exhausted  to  live,  we  will  clasp  our 
hands  together,  bless  God  with  our  last  breath,  and  die 
like  the  babes  in  the  wood.  Perhaps,  after  we  are  dead, 
that  Irish  washerwoman  who  lives  in  the  fifth  story  may 
come  in,  like  the  robin  in  the  legend,  and  cover  us  with 
leaves.  She  is  n't  very  like  a  robin,  certainly,"  continued 
Dick,  with  an  air  of  mock  meditation,  "for  she  swears 
frightfully,  and,  I  regret  to  say,  smells  of  whiskey." 

This  struck  the  pair  as  so  very  comic  an  idea  that  they 
simultaneously  clapped  their  hands,  and  burst  into  peals 
of  laughter.  To  hear  those  shrieks  of  merriment  one 
would  have  thought  this  young  couple  the  blithest  and 
most  careless  creatures  in  the  world. 


412  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 

Their  history  was  a  simple  romance.  They  were  both 
orphans,  the  only  difference  being  that  Agnes  Grey  was 
an  orphan  with  rich  relatives,  and  Richard  Burdoon  an 
orphan  with  no  relatives  at  all.  Agnes  had  been  adopted 
by  her  uncle,  an  old  bachelor,  who  lived  in  Boston,  —  a 
selfish  old  man,  who,  once  he  took  possession  of  the  poor 
girl,  looked  on  her  as  his  personal  property,  and  regarded 
all  who  would  seek  to  deprive  him  of  her  as  atrocious 
burglars,  worthy  of  the  extremest  penalties  of  the  law. 
He  petted  her,  then,  as  Caligula  petted  his  favorite  horse. 
She  was  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  had  her 
gilded  stable.  Agnes  Grey  had  but  to  express  a  desire, 
and  every  luxury  that  wealth  could  purchase  dropped  at 
her  feet  from  the  hands  of  the  abominable  old  fairy,  her 
uncle.  She  gave  balls  and  matinees,  and  rode  on  Arab 
steeds.  Her  jewels  were  the  newest  and  the  most  won- 
derful, her  dresses  unimaginably  well-fitting.  Having 
wealth,  beauty,  and  an  indulgent  guardian,  this  charming- 
young  girl  wanted  but  one  thing,  —  a  lover.  It  is  a  cu- 
rious dispensation  of  Providence,  that,  while  some  young 
ladies  are  all  their  lives  waiting  for  lovers,  that  commodity 
never  arrives,  whereas  others  have  scarce  begun  to  feel 
the  vague  desire,  when  lo  !  it  rains  and  hails  and  snows 
any  quantity  of  adoring  young  gentlemen.  Agnes  Grey, 
then,  had  scarcely  conjured  up  the  youngest  of  desires  in 
her  most  secret  heart,  when  the  wall  opened,  and  Mr. 
Richard  Burdoon,  stepping  out,  proclaimed  himself  her 
lover.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  the  wall  opened  in  real- 
ity, but  it  is  a  metaphorical  way  I  have  of  expressing  that 
he  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time.  They  met  at  a  party. 
Mr.  Burdoon,  having  been  left  a  few  thousand  dollars  just 
one  year  previously  by  the  death  of  his  only  surviving 
relative,  set  off  for  Europe  to  spend  them.  He  succeeded 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  413  * 

to  admiration,  and,  at  the  time  I  speak  of,  had  just  re- 
turned with  an  immense  deal  of  useless  experience,  and 
just  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  Considering,  very 
properly,  that  so  enormous  a  capital  justified  any  folly,  he 
ran  off  with  Miss  Agnes  Grey,  without  consulting  her 
avuncular  dragon.  That  jealous  old  relative,  wounded  in 
his  tenderest  spot,  raged  like  a  fury,  disowned  his  un- 
happy niece,  and  swore  a  solemn  oath  that  he  would  let 
her  die  of  starvation  ere  he  would  assist  her.  At  first, 
Agnes  and  her  husband  mentally  whistled  at  his  threats. 
Had  they  not  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars "?  Armed 
with  so  incalculable  a  sum,  what  cared  they  for  poverty  1 
They  came  to  New  York.  Ah  !  how  quickly  did  the 
scenes  in  the  panorama  succeed  each  other  !  Metro- 
politan Hotel  and  fine  apartments  ;  then  boarding-house, 
and  sudden  departure  therefrom  owing  to  bills  unpaid ; 
then  cheap  lodgings  and  visits  to  the  pawnbroker ;  then 
appealing  letters  to  old  uncle,  —  all  of  which  were  re- 
turned unopened.  Lastly,  in  the  miserable  tenement  in 
Mulberry  Street,  we  find  them  without  sixpence,  laughing 
in  the  face  of  starvation. 

What  wonders  will  not  youth  and  hope  work  !  What 
horrible  witches  fly  affrighted  at  its  merry  laugh,  piercing 
as  the  clarion  of  the  cock  !  Midas  should  have  been  the 
god  of  youth,  for  he  turned  everything  to  gold  ! 

After  a  pause  in  the  merry  talk  of  this  young  couple, 
•which  I  took  advantage  of  in  order  to  relate  all  I  knew 
of  their  history,  Dick  said  suddenly,  as  if  the  conviction 
forced  itself  on"  him  for  the  first  time,  "  Do  you  know, 
Agnes,  that  I  feel  absolutely  hungry?" 

"  No !  Do  you,  though  1 "  said  Agnes,  with  the  most 
comic  air  of  surprise.  "  Let  us  hasten  up  dinner." 

"Certainly,"    answered   Dick,    falling   instinctively   in 


414  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 

with  her  humor.  "This  cook  of  ours  is  confoundedly 
slow  to-day.  I  shall  give  her  warning";  —  and  he  made 
a  feint  of  looking  at  his  watch. 

"  I  will  ring  the  bell,  and  tell  John  to  hurry  her,"  said 
Agnes,  pulling  an  imaginary  bell-rope.  "  John,"  she  con- 
tinued, after  a  pause  sufficient  to  allow  the  mythical  John 
to  mount  the  stairs,  —  "  John,  tell  the  cook  to  send  up 
the  dinner  instantly.  Master  is  very  angry  at  the  delay." 

"Yes,  mum,"  replied  a  gruff  voice,  which  Agnes,  of 
course,  did  not  affect  to  consider  as  proceeding  from  the 
bottom  of  Dick's  chest!  Then  Agnes  and  her  husband 
talked  of  indifferent  matters  for  a  moment  or  two,  as  if 
beguiling  the  weary  time  before  dinner.  After  a  proper 
period  of  delay,  John's  gruff  voice  announced  dinner  in 
the  same  mysterious  manner  as  before.  Then  Dick  made 
a  great  show  of  giving  Agnes  his  arm,  and  leading  her  in 
state  into  the  dining-room.  This  solemn  procession,  how- 
ever, consisted  in  marching  round  the  naked  chamber  a 
couple  of  times,  and  bringing  up  before  the  old  deal  table, 
which  was  supposed  to  be  loaded  with  all  the  delicacies  of 
the  season.  Dick  was  agreeably  surprised  at  the  splendor 
of  the  repast. 

"  What ! "  he  exclaimed,  seating  himself  on  the  old 
wine-box,  and  glancing  over  the  bare  table,  —  "  what  a 
sumptuous  feast !  Ha  !  I  shall  enjoy  it.  My  appetite  is 
splendid.  John,  remove  the  cover  from  the  soup.  This 
is  potaye  a  la  reine,  my  dear.  Excellent,  if  I  may  judge 
by  the  odor.  Shall  I  send  you  some  1 " 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  answered  Agnes,  receiving  a  sup- 
posititious soup-plate  from  the  mythical  John.  "  It  is 
delicious  !  But  oh  !  I  declare,  I  have  burned  my  mouth, 
it  is  so  hot !  "  and  Agnes  went  through  all  the  spasms  of  a 
person  suffering  from  a  spoonful  of  hot  soup. 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  415 

"  As  I  live,  a  salmon  ! "  exclaimed  Dick,  starting  into 
an  attitude  of  surprise.  "  It  is  early  in  the  season  for 
such  fish." 

"  It  was  sent  from  Scotland,  in  ice,"  replied  Agnes. 

"  It  is  a  noble  animal  !  "  said  Dick,  using  an  aerial  fish- 
knife  with  wonderful  dexterity.  "  There  is  no  sport  more 
magnificent  than  that  of  salmon-fishing,  particularly  on 
'  the  Scotch  and  Irish  rivers.  The  noble  scenery,  the  rapid 
river,  the  long,  lithe  rod,  the  whizzing  line  that  drops  £he 
gorgeous  fly  into  the  deep  pool,  where  the  silver-sided  ras- 
cals lurk.  Then  the  strike;  tfee  quick  whirring  of  the 
wheel ;  the  flashing  leaps  of  the  captive ;  the  moments  of 
agony  when  the  line  slackens  as  he  runs  up  stream ;  the 
joy  when  he  pulls  again ;  the  breathless  anxiety  when  the 
gaff  is  thrust  under  him  as  he  swims ;  the  deep  sigh  of 
relief  when  he  is  hauled,  flapping,  shining,  bleeding,  dying, 
into  the  boat ;  — all  this  is  —  " 

"Very  eloquent,  no  doubt,"  says  Agnes;  "but  your 
salmon  is  cooling  all  this  time,  my  dear  husband." 

"  Ah !  true,"  cries  Dick,  with  a  sudden  start,  and  ap- 
plying himself  with  instant  vigor  to  the  discussion  of  a 
supposed  cut  of  rosy  flesh,  with  mealy  flakes  of  white  lying 
in  the  crevices  of  the  meat.  "  What  a  delicious  salmon  ! 
We  are  indebted  to  our  noble  friend  in  Scotland." 

"  You  will  find  this  turban  de  volatile  aux  truffes  very 
excellent,"  said  Agnes,  peering  with  the  air  of  a  connois- 
seur at  the  ideal  dish  before  her.  "  Francis's  last  master 
says  that  he  is  celebrated  for  it." 

"  Hum !  we  will  see,"  muttered  Dick,  pursing  up  his 
lips,  and  leaning  back  as  far  as  he  could  on  the  wine-box, 
with  a  critical  importance.  "  Good  heavens,  Agnes  !  "  he 
exclaimed,  the  moment  after,  with  an  air  of  horror,  "  how 
could  you  recommend  this  1  Why,  the  fellow  has  not  put 


416  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 

a  single  cock's-comb  in  it !  Pshaw !  Here,  John,  take  this 
away,  and  tell  Frangois,  if  he  sends  up  a  dish  of  that  kind 
again,  I  will  condemn  him  to  eat  it." 

"Fortunately,  there  are  some  delicious  cotelettes  ft,  la 
financiere  left,  so  that  we  can  dispense  with  the  volatile" 
says  Agnes. 

"  They  are  indeed  excellent,"  answers  Dick,  making  be- 
lieve that  his  mouth  is  full  of  the  succulent  meat  of  the 
cotelettes. 

So  on  through  the  whole  of  this  strange  repast.  Deli- 
cacy after  delicacy.was  announced,  —  some  relished,  others 
criticised,  more  dismissed  indignantly.  The  unlucky  Fran- 
gois came  in  for  many  severe  rebukes,  transmitted  through 
the  mythical  John.  The  game  was  pronounced  overdone*, 
and  an  English  pheasant  —  a  present  from  an  illustrious 
British  friend  —  was  condemned  as  having  been  utterly 
spoiled  in  the  dressing.  The  dessert,  however,  consisted 
of  a  soufflet,  and  a  delicious  confection,  called  guteaux 
Egyptienne,  was  solemnly  pronounced  to  be  perfect,  and 
John  was  commissioned  to  convey  a  flattering  compliment 
to  Frangois,  as  a  salve  for  the  rebukes  given  during  the 
previous  courses.  Two  children,  playing  at  "feasting," 
could  not  have  conducted  this  visionary  repast  more  ear- 
nestly. The  correct  wines  were  drunk  at  the  correct 
moment,  and  all  the  little  ceremonies  of  a  formal  dinner 
scrupulously  performed. 

When  all  was  over,  —  when  the  coffee  had  been  served 
and  drunk,  when  the  table  had  been  cleared  away,  and 
John  had  respectfully  retired,  —  the  eyes  of  the  young 
couple  met,  and  a  flash  of  laughter  sprang  from  the  en- 
counter. Casting  aside  the  elegant  formality  of  the  great 
lady  en  grand  tenue,  Agnes  ran  to  her  husband,  and,  clasp- 
ing him  round  the  neck,  fairly  sobbed  out  her  laughter  on 
his  breast. 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  417 

"  Do  you  know,  dear,"  said  Dick,  after  a  little  while, 
"  it  may  entail  on  me  the  reputation  of  being  a  glutton, 
of  having  a  wolf  in  my  stomach,  of  being  a  vampire,  or 
a  thousand  other  unpleasant  reports  1  But  I  nevertheless 
cannot  help  confessing  that  I  feel  rather  more  hungry 
than  I  did  before  I  commenced  that  exquisite  dinner, 
which,  in  spite  of  some  failures,  does  FranQois  infinite 
credit." 

"Would  you  like  to  dine  over  again,  Dick?"  inquired 
his  wife,  with  a  grave  air.  "Nothing  is  easier,  you 
know."  • 

"Certainly,"  answered  Dick,  dubiously,  "nothing  is 
easier ;  but  —  but  I  'm  rather  afraid  that  my  tastes  are 
becoming  somewhat  coarse.  I  am  really  ashamed  of  the 
very  idea;  but  the  fact  is  that  at  this  very  moment  I 
have  an  intense  longing  for  a  piece  of  roast  beef." 

"  That  is  singular,"  said  Agnes,  with  an  air  of  surprise. 
"  However,  nature  sometimes  avenges  itself  on  luxury, 
by  afflicting  her  votaries  with  homely  tastes.  I  really 
pity  you,  Dick.  For  my  part,  nothing  less  delicate  than 
a  reed-bird,  —  tender,  succulent,  melting,  —  an  epitome, 
in  fact,  of  perfume,  nourishment,  and  flavor,  —  nothing 
less  than  this  could  possibly  tempt  my  pampered  ap- 
petite." 

"I  declare,  Agnes,"  cried  Dick,  "I  have  a  fancy  just 
now  to  behave  like  a  poor  devil  who  has  n't  got  a  penny. 
Yes !  you  may  shrug  your  shoulders,  but  I  really  wish 
to  divest  myself  of  my  splendor,  and  commit  an  act 
that  contradicts  the  magnificence  with  which  we  are 
surrounded." 

"  Explain  yourself." 

"You  remember  that  magnificent  edition  of  Erasmus 
which  my  old  friend,  Harry  Waters,  gave  me  when  I  was 

27 


418  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 

going  abroad.  Well,  I  cherish  that  book  dearly,  for  the 
sake  of  him,  and  the  few  affectionate  lines  he  has  written 
on  the  fly-leaf.  Now,  if  a  very  poor  man  had  that  book 
he  would  sell  it,  if  he  had  nothing  else  to  dispose  of,  for 
it  is  clasped  with  silver,  and  is  worth  something;  so  I, 
who  wish,  merely  for  a  freak,  to  experience  the  sensations 
of  a  poor  man,  have  an  idea  of  going  out  and  selling  that 
book,  —  merely  for  the  sake  of  the  illusion,  you  know. 
Nothing  more,  on  my  honor." 

"  You  always  had  queer  fancies,  dear,"  answered  Agnes, 
as  unconcernedly  as  if  she  had  millions  in  her  purse ;  but 
one  might  see  beneath  all  that  careless  gayety  a  sudden 
flash  of  hope  sparkle  for  an  instant.  One  could  see  very 
plainly  that  this  book  —  which,  doubtless,  had  till  then 
been  forgotten  —  gave  her  a  new  lease  of  life ;  one  could 
see  very  plainly  how  bravely  she  had  been  smiling  in  the 
face  of  hunger  and  of  death. 

"  Let  me  perform  the  last  act  of  the  millionnaire  before 
I  play  the  part  of  a  beggar,"  said  Dick,  rising  joyously 
from  his  wine-box.  "  Sardanapalus  burned  his  furniture ; 
why  should  not  I  consume  my  chairs  ?  The  fire  is  going 
out  in  a  most  unaccountable  manner ;  let  us  see  how  this 
fauteuil  will  blaze."  So  saying,  he  broke  the  wine-box 
into  fragments,  and  cast  it  into  the  almost  fireless  grate. 

The  wine-box  blazed.  A  lofty,  ruddy  flame  sprang  up 
in  the  fireplace,  and  shed  a  glow  over  the  cold,  naked 
room.  It  seemed  as  if  the  purple  Burgundy  that  once 
had  lain  between  those  few  boards  had  left  some  portion 
of  its  fiery  heart  behind  it.  Who  knows  but  that  a  bottle 
of  that  glowing  wine  was  at  that  very  moment  sparkling 
on  some  splendid  table,  —  that  in  some  other  hemisphere 
the  curtains  were  drawn  close,  and  the  wax-lights  blaz- 
ing, and  a  party  of  jolly  fellows,  with  legs  well  stretched 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  419 

under  the  shining  mahogany,  were  toasting  beautiful 
women,  while  the  case  which  held  the  precious  juice 
they  were  quaffing,  the  shell  from  which  the  soul  that 
they  were  inhaling  had  fled,  was  burning  in  a  rusty 
grate,  and  making  a  bonfire  to  scare  away  the  wehrwolf, 
death  1 

"  The  blaze  is  really  quite  cheerful,"  said  Agnes,  warm- 
ing her  hands,  while  a  faint  glow  of  pleasure  spread  itself 
over  her  face.  "  Do  you  know  that  I  think  a  wood-fire 
preferable  to  all  others  1 " 

"It  recalls  the  feudal  times,"  answered  Dick.  "We 
are  in  a  vast  baronial  hall.  The  roof  is  solid  with  ribs  of 
blackened  oak,  and  antlers  hang  from  the  walls,  to  each 
horn  of  which  cling  a  thousand  memories  of  the  chase. 
The  floor  is  of  solid  stone.  Old,  tattered  banners  droop 
from  the  walls,  and  wave  heavily,  as  if  too  weak  with 
age  to  shake  off  the  thickening  dust  that  soils  their  his- 
toric splendor.  No  modern  garments  shroud  our  limbs. 
You,  dearest,  are  clad  in  a  lustrous  Cramoisie  velvet, 
with  peaked  stomacher,  and  stately  train  sweeping  on 
the  ground.  A  cavalier's  hat,  with  its  trailing  feather, 
droops  over  my  temples.  My  sword  clangs  against  the 
pavement,  and  I  assume  a  picturesque  and  haughty  atti- 
tude, as  I  stand  with  my  back  to  the  wide  fireplace,  where 
huge  logs  of  oak,  supported  by  iron  'dogs,'  spit  and 
blaze,  and  send  streams  of  sparkles  up  the  huge  chim- 
ney. I  am  at  present  meditating  whether  Hubert  the 
seneschal  shall  be  beheaded  or  not.  Shall  I  order  his 
instant  execution,  or  —  " 

"Sell  the  book1?"  interrupted  Agnes;  "please  your- 
self." 

"  By  Jove,  I  forgot ! "  said  Dick,  forgetting  in  a  mo- 
ment all  his  splendor  and  feudality.     "  Agnes,   I  '11  be 


420  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 

back  in  five  minutes.  Tell  John  to  prepare  tea,  and  let 
us  have  the  Sevres  service";  —  and  he  bolted  down  the 
crazy  stairs,  reaching  the  bottom  in  a  few  bounds. 

Agnes  smiled  sorrowfully  as  she  crouched  over  the 
rapidly-sinking  fire.  The  wine-box  was  fast  losing  its 
fiery  spirit  and  degenerating  into  a  dull  mass  of  blacken- 
ing embers.  Now  that  her  joyous  young  husband  was 
away  she  had  no  one  with  whom  she  could  laugh  at  mis- 
ery. It  takes  two  to  fight  that  crawling,  cruel  monster. 
The  moment  the  echoes  of  Dick's  footsteps  had  died  away 
the  horror  laid  its  cold  hand  upon  her  heart.  It  was  in 
vain  that  she  tried  to  sing,  to  laugh,  to  conjure  up  those 
comical  visions  which  she  and  Dick  had  used  so  often 
before  as  an  exorcism.  She  felt  a  black  wall,  as  it  were, 
closing  gradually  round  her;  the  air  became  too  thick 
to  breathe  ;  the  last  bit  of  sky  was  gradually  being  shut 
off,  —  then  —  then  a  quick  foot  on  the  stairs,  a  merry 
cricket-like  voice,  a  half-sung  carol,  and  Dick  burst  into 
the  room,  performing  a  species  of  triumphal  dance.  A 
piece  of  paper  fluttered  in  his  hand. 

"  Two  dollars !  "  he  cried,  executing  an  indescribable 
figure.  "  Going  for  two  dollars  !  This  splendid,  mag- 
nificent, delicious,  succulent  book,  with  silver  facings,  like 
a  militia  officer,  going  for  two  dollars !  Who- '11  bid  1  Only 
two  dollars  !  Gone  at  two  dollars  !  " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  — "  said  Agnes,  rising  ea- 
gerly. 

"I  do.  I  absolutely  got  two  dollars  for  the  book. 
'T  was  worth  fifteen;  but  then  you  know  we  must  not 
be  too  nice.  Is  n't  it  splendid  ? "  and  he  waved  the  two- 
dollar  bill  as  a  young  ensign  waves  his  standard  in  the 
battle.  "  I  brought  it  home,  Agnes  dear,  because  I  think 
you  are  the  best  person  to  spend  it.  These  wretches  of 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  421 

tradespeople  would  certainly  cheat  me  if  I  attempted  to 
buy  any  eatables.  What  shall  it  be  % " 

"  What  do  you  think  of  sausages  1 "  said  Agnes,  sug- 
gesting rather  timidly.  "  They  are  cheap  and  —  " 

"  Excellent ! "  cried  Dick,  with  a  new  pirouette,  "  charm- 
ing !  I  adore  the  sausage.  Sausage,  with  some  nice  white 
bread,  a  pat  of  butter,  and  a  few  apples,  and  we  shall  feast 
in  dazzling  splendor  ! " 

"Not  forgetting  a  cigar  for  Dick,"  whispered  Agnes, 
looking  up  lovingly  in  his  face.  "  I  know  that  you  long 
for  a  cigar." 

"  Angel !"  cried  Dick,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  and 
waltzing  round  the  room  with  her.  "  There  are  no  sound- 
ings to  the  depth  of  woman's  love  !  " 

"I  'm  off  to  the  market,  love,"  said  Agnes,  giving  him 
a  kiss ;  but  this  chaste  salute  was  suddenly  interrupted 
by  a  knock  at  the  door.  Both  hearts  leaped.  Who  could 
it  be  1  A  new  misfortune  1  The  bookseller,  where  Dick 
sold  the  book,  seemed  suspicious  about  his  being  in  pos- 
session of  such  property.  Heaven  grant  that  nothing  un- 
pleasant threatened,  was  the  prayer  of  the  young  couple. 

"  Does  Mr.  Burdoon  live  here  1 "  said  a  very  deep,  gruff 
voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dick,  boldly,  "  come  in." 

A  short,  thick-set  man  in  a  great-coat  entered,  and  stood 
near  the  door.  It  was  a  dusky  twilight  in  the  room. 
The  Assyrian  bonfire  of  the  wine-box  had  just  expired  in 
a  few  convulsive  sparkles,  and  it  was  hi  vain  that  Dick 
tried  to  see  the  stranger's  countenance. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Burdoon  1 "  asked  the  visitor. 

"I  am,"  answered  Dick;  "what  is  your  business,  sir1? 
I  would  ask  you  to  be  seated,  but,  unfortunately,  all  my 
furniture  is  packed  up." 


422  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER." 

"Never  mind,"  answered  the  man,  gruffly.  "You  sold 
a  book  a  short  time  since  at  Mr.  Marbell's  bookstore,  did 
you  not  1 " 

"I  really  am  not  aware,  sir,"  said  Dick,  haughtily, 
"that  this  is  any  one's  business  but  my  own." 

"  Softly,  softly,  my  friend,"  answered  the  new-comer. 
"  No  need  of  quarrelling.  How  did  that  book  come  into 
your  possession  ? " 

"Are  you  a  police-officer?"  inquired  Dick,  in  a  men- 
acing tone. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  man,  "answer  my  question  first." 

"When  I  have  answered  it,  I  shall  kick  you  down 
stairs,  my  friend." 

"  I  '11  run  the  risk,"  said  the  fellow,  with  a  short  laugh. 

"  Well,  then,  it  was  given  to  me  by  a  friend,"  answered 
Dick,  making  an  ominous  step  toward  the  intruder. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  —  don't  kick  me  down  stairs  just  yet. 
Why  did  you  part  with  that  book  ? " 

"Curse  you,  that 's  none  of  your  business,"  cried  Dick, 
savagely.  "  If  you  value  your  bones  you  '11  leave  me." 

"  I  don't  value  my  bones,  so  I  '11  stay  until  you  have 
answered  me,"  said  the  man,  very  quietly.  Dick  could 
not  help  smiling  at  this  audacity. 

"  Every  question  I  answer,"  said  he,  "  I  shall  give  you 
an  additional  kick  for.  You  know  the  terms,  —  ask  away." 

"  Why  did  you  part  with  that  book  1 " 

"Because  I  was  starving.  Because  I  saw  my  wife 
fainting,  and  dying  of  cold  and  hunger  before  my  eyes, 
all  the  time  with  a  brave  smile  upon  her  lips.  Because 
I  have  sought  for  work  and  could  not  get  it.  Because 
there  was  neither  food,  nor  fire,  nor  furniture  in  this 
wretched  hole.  Because  starvation  was  flapping  his 
wings  like  a  vulture,  hoping  each  moment  to  plunge 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  423 

his  beak  into  our  vitals.  For  these  reasons  I  sold  the 
book  that  dear  old  Harry  Waters  gave  me,  and  for  none 
other  would  I  have  profaned  his  gift.  Now  I  have  ex- 
posed mj  misery  to  you,  sir,  whoever  you  are,  and  you 
shall  pay  dearly  for  it.  I  will  break  every  bone  in  your 
body,"  and  he  sprang  like  a  tiger  at  the  short,  thick-set 
man,  who  stood  in  the  gloom.  He  felt  himself  suddenly 
seized  by  the  shoulder,  and  rooted  to  the  earth,  as  if  he 
had  been  in  the  grip  of  an  enormous  vise. 

"  Dick  Burd&on,"  said  the  thick-set  man,  and  this  time 
his  voice  was  sweet  and  soft  as  a  woman's,  "  you  are  not 
going  to  kick  me,  Dick  Burdoon ;  for  many  a  star-lit 
night,  in  the  silent  fields,  you  have  lain  with  my  arms 
around  you,  and  your  head  upon  my  bosom,  while  we 
talked  of  the  splendid  things  we  would  achieve  when  we 
two  went  out  into  life  hand  in  hand." 

Dick  trembled  like  a  leaf,  and  said  not  a  word. 

"You  will  not  kick  me,  Dick  Burdoon,"  went  on  the 
thick-set  man,  loosening  his  grasp  of  Dick's  shoulder,  and 
drawing  closer  as  he  spoke,  "  because  one  day,  when  the 
sun  was  pitiless,  and  the  river  cool,  a  young,  weak  boy, 
tempted  by  the  clear  waters,  ventured  into  a  deep  part, 
and  went  down.  And  then  his  friend,  older  and  stronger 
than  himself,  plunged  in,  determined  to  rescue  that  fair 
boy  or  perish  with  him.  And  he  dived  into  the  deep 
waters  twice,  and  the  second  time  he  found  him,  clasped 
in  the  meshes  of  loathsome  weeds,  with  the  merciless 
river  sweeping  away  his  young  life.  The  elder  boy  strug- 
gled with  him  to  land,  and  when  they  reached  the 
shore  people  could  scarce  tell  the  saver  from  the  saved. 
But  when  both  recovered  their  strength  and  speech,  the 
younger  boy  swore  eternal  gratitude  to  his  preserver,  and 
they  vowed  to  be  friends  forevermore." 


424  DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER. 

"  I  remember  !  I  remember ! "  cried  Dick  sobbingly. 

"  Since  that  time,"  continued  the  thick-set  man,  "  their 
paths  in  life  have  lain  asunder ;  but  I  know  that  in  the 
hearts  of  both  the  old  friendship  lives  still,  and  that,  if 
one  of  the  twain  were  frowned  on  by  the  world,  the  other 
would  pour  out  his  life  in  smiles  to  make  it  sunshine  with 
him  again.  That  is  why  I  know  that  you  will"  not  kick 
me,  Dick  Burdoon." 

"  Harry  !  Harry  Waters,  —  my  dear,  dear  old  boy  !  " 
cried  Dick  through  his  tears,  and  flinging  himself  into  the 
visitor's  arms.  "  God  bless  you  for  coming,  Harry,  for  I 
needed  you  sorely." 

"  I  saw  you,  my  boy,"  said  Harry,  folding  him  in  an 
embrace  so  gentle  that  one  would  imagine  he  was  fondling 
a  child,  —  "I  saw  you  the  moment  you  entered  the  shop. 
You  know  1  was  always  famous  for  poking  in  old  book- 
stores, and  I  am  glad  I  have  such  tastes.  I  saw  you  sell- 
ing the  old  Erasmus,  my  boy,  and  knew  that  something 
must  be  wrong  with  you.  I  followed  you  here,  and  now 
we  three  are  joined,  thank  God,  for  a  long  time  to  come." 
And  the  kind  fellow  took  poor,  timid  Agnes's  hand  and 
drew  her  close  till  all  three  were  united  in  one  fond  trinity 
of  love. 

Need  I  tell  how  Harry  Waters,  the  rich  bachelor, 
carried  Agnes  and  Dick  off  that  evening  to  his  house,  and 
made  much  of  them  there  ?  Need  I  say  how  they  lived 
with  him  until  Dick  got  employment,  from  which  he  has 
gradually  raised  himself  to  be  a  great  merchant  1  Need 
I  tell  about  that  solemn  christening,  whereat  Dick's  first- 
born was  named,  with  much  ceremony,  Harry  Waters 
Burdoon  1  A  hint  of  all  those  happy  days  will,  I  am  sure, 
be  enough  for  the  warm-hearted  reader,  who  has  long 
since,  I  know,  wished  the  young  couple  a  full  meal.  One 


DUKE  HUMPHREY'S  DINNER.  425 

thing  I  must  relate,  however,  —  an  incident  that  occurred 
on  the  evening  after  the  sale  of  the  Erasmus.  When  the 
sobbings  and  the  embraces  were  all  over,  Harry  Waters, 
by  way  of  saying  something  general,  said  to  Dick,  "  By 
the  way,  have  you  dined  yet  1 " 

Dick  turned  to  his  wife,  who  smiled. 

"0,  yes,"  we  dined  sumptuously  an  hour  ago,"  said 
Dick. 

"  Ah !  indeed ! "  said  Harry,  rather  surprised. 

"  Yes !  we  dined  with  Duke  Humphrey  !  " 


426  MILLY  DOVE. 


MILLY  DOVE. 


IT  was  the  quaintest  of  imaginable  rooms.  It  was  deep 
and  dark  in  the  corners,  where  the  very  spirit  of  mystery 
itself  seemed  to  hide  away,  while  there  lay  from  end  to 
end  of  the  crazy  old  floor  a  long  bar  of  golden  light,  that 
had  poured  in  through  the  single  window,  seeming  like  a 
luminous  pathway  which,  if  followed,  would  take  one 
straight  out  through  the  diamonded  casement,  and  so  on 
to  heaven.  The  walls  were  dim,  and  deeply  panelled  with 
some  dark,  melancholy  wood,  and  in  the  chinks  of  every 
panel  active  spiders  lived  a  toilsome  life,  passing  their 
days  in  the  construction  of  suspension-bridges  from  their 
houses  to  the  ceiling,  —  which  works  were  apparently  un- 
dertaken from  a  purely  scientific  motive,  as  they  were 
never  seen  to  traverse  them  after  they  were  finished. 
Three  chairs  lurked  in  the  corners  of  this  half-lit  cham- 
ber. One  of  them  —  old-fashioned,  with  a  high  back  and 
crooked  arms  —  seemed  to  repose  in  the  twilight  of  the 
place,  like  some  high-shouldered  old  beau  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, silently  reflecting,  as  it  were,  on  the  habits  of  the 
present  generation.  This  old  fellow  was  not,  however, 
always  in  retreat.  He  was  many  a  time  during  the  day 
dragged  forth  into  the  centre  of  the  stream  of  golden 
light  that  poured  through  the  deep  window,  where  he 
seemed  to  blink  and  shrink  from  the  unwonted  glare, 


MILLY  DOVE.  427 

while  a  small,  bright  figure  nestled  into  his  comfortable 
angles,  and  pierced  his  bent  and  padded  old  arms  with  cruel 
pins,  to  which  divers  endless  cotton  threads  were  fastened. 
And  then,  as  the  sunlight  poured  splendidly  through  the 
diamond  panes,  powdering  the  air  with  golden  dust  and 
playing  on  the  carvings  of  the  ceiling,  there  was  not  a 
prettier  picture  in  the  world  —  not  even  in  your  grand 
foreign  galleries  beyond  the  sea  —  than  Milly  Dove,  sit- 
ting in  her  sumptuous  old  chair. 

She  was  very,  very  pretty,  this  little  Milly  Dove.  Her 
eyes  were  so  dark  and  blue,  and  the  light  that  shone  in 
them  seemed  to  be  so  far  off  behind,  that  one  saw  it 
shining,  shining  miles  and  miles  away,  like  the  lights  of  a 
distant  city  across  the  sea  !  Then  her  hair  was  of  such 
a  rich  brown,  —  golden-hued  where  the  light  struck  it,  — ' 
and  her  rosy,  cloven  mouth  was  so  fresh  and  dewy,  that, 
if  I  were  a  painter,  I  would  not  have  tried  to  paint  Milly 
Dove  for  the  world,  —  I  would  only  have  dreamed  of 
her. 

Milly  sat  the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  that  high- 
backed  chair,  right  in  the  sunny  stream,  working  at  her 
embroidery  or  knitting.  I  said  before  —  prettily  enough 
too,  I  think  —  that  the  light,  as  it  poured  in,  seemed  like 
a  path  to  heaven.  If  it  were  so,  who  that  saw  this  little 
maiden  seated  in  its  radiance  would  not  say  that  she  was 
an  angel  made  to  tread  it  ] 

She  did  not  tread  it,  however,  or  even  dream  of  any 
such  proceeding  as  marching  out  through  the  window  on 
a  pavement  of  sunbeams,  and  wandering  off  into  prob- 
lematical regions.  Not  that  Milly  Dove  did  not  wish  to 
go  to  heaven ;  but  she  had  so  many  things  to  do  down 
below  here  that  she  never  would  have  thought  of  such  a 
journey,  unless  it  pleased  God  to  take  her. 


428  MILLY  DOVE. 

She  had  much  to  do,  that  little  thing,  though  you 
would  not  think  it  to  look  at  her.  Milly  Dove  kept  a 
shop.  Yes  !  absolutely  kept  a  shop.  Directly  opposite  to 
that  old-fashioned  window  which  lit  the  little  room,  a  small 
glass  door  stood  always  half  open,  through  which  one  could 
catch  a  glimpse  of  a  small  counter  and  small  shelves,  and 
a  varied  assortment  of  the  smallest  merchandise  it  was 
possible  to  keep.  Tiny  drums  for  infants  of  a  military 
turn  of  mind ;  scanty  bundles  of  cotton  and  muslin  stuffs, 
large  enough,  perhaps,  to  furnish  dolls'  dresses ;  infini- 
tesimal brooches  ;  ridiculously  reduced  thimbles ;  stunted 
whips  ;  dwarf  rakes  and  spades,  and  baby  wheelbarrows, 
together  with  a  hundred  such  like  articles,  useful  or  orna- 
mental, lay  on  the  shelves,  were  hidden  away  in  secret 
places  under  the  counter,  or  depended  in  bunches  from 
the  low  ceiling. 

It  seemed  exceedingly  odd  to  be  obliged  to  regard 
Milly  Dove  as  the  owner  of  all  this  magnificent  and  va- 
ried property.  Her  childish  figure  had  nothing  of  the 
rigidity  of  a  proprietor ;  she  did  not  look  as  if  she  had 
any  pockets  to  keep  her  money  in ;  nor  did  she  possess  in 
the  faintest  degree  the  air  of  being  arithmetical.  No  one 
would  believe,  to  look  into  those"  clear,  unworldly  eyes, 
that  she  could  buy  or  sell  anything  to  the  slightest  ad- 
vantage, —  unless,  indee'd,  it  were  eggs,  that  commodity 
having  been,  as  every  one  knows  who  has  read  story- 
books, intrusted  from  time  immemorial  to  pretty  little 
girls  to  convey  to^market.  Now,  in  spite  of  all  this, 
Milly  Dove  was  a  famous  hand  at  a  bargain.  It  was 
excellent  to  see  her  standing  behind  her  small  counter, 
insisting  pertinaciously  on  the  price  of  some  article  which 
she  was  selling ;  explaining  with  much  gravity,  to  the 
cunning  clown  who  wished  to  purchase,  its  various  merits 


MILLY  DOVE.  429 

and  positive  value ;  declaring  that,  if  she  gave  it  a  cent 
cheaper,  it  would  be  a  dead  loss  to  her,  —  and  how  were 
folks  to  live  if  they  did  not  make  some  profit  on  their 
goods  1  Then  all  this  with  such  a  sweet  and  gentle  firm- 
ness, such  a  mixture  of  innocence  and  shrewdness,  that  it 
must  be  a  hard  customer  indeed  who  could  find  the  heart 
to  beat  her  down. 

That  house,  —  a  small,  old-fashioned  New  England 
tenement,  smelling  of  the  Mayflower,  —  together  with  the 
shop  and  its  stock  of  goods,  was  all  that  Milly  Dove  pos- 
sessed in  this  wide  world.  Her  parents  were  dead,  and 
this  old  roof,  with  a  scanty  supply  of  merchandise,  was 
all  they  had  to  bequeath  to  their  only  child.  And  she 
managed  her  inheritance  wonderfully  well,  let  me  tell 
you  !  By  the  aid  of  her  little  shop,  she  made  nearly  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  the  year;  and  she  had  a 
tenant  for  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  in  the  person  of 
a  Mr.  Josiah  Compton,  who  paid  her  probably  as  much 
more ;  so  that  this  little  proprietor  of  sixteen,  although 
somewhat  forlorn,  was  not  very  poor,  and  was  able  to  lay 
something  by  every  year  in  a  savings  bank  at  Boston. 

Mr.  Josiah  Compton  was  Milly's  only  friend.  He  was 
a  gnarled  bachelor  of  fifty-six ;  odd,  kind-hearted,  passion- 
ately attached  to  flowers  and  music,  and  loving  dearly 
everything  old  and  quaint,  and  which  did  not  smell,  as 
he  said,  of  the  modern  varnish.  He  had  lived  in  this 
house  a  very  long  time.  Indeed,  he  had  been  living 
there  for  many  a  year  before  Milly  was  born,  and  loved 
the  place  for  the  air  of  quiet  antiquity  with  which  it 
was  haunted.  There  was  a  curious  old  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  which  Mr.  Josiah  Compton  had  with 
his  own  hands  brought  to  a  high  state  of  floral  cul- 
ture. He  had  labored  at  it  for  years,  and  had  written 


430  MILLY  DOVE. 

the  history  of  his  toil  in  flowers.  The  ground  glowed 
with  tulips  and  ranunculuses;  fiery  lychnises  and  rich- 
blossomed  roses  flaunted  in  the  deep  borders ;  trumpet 
honeysuckles  thrust  the  golden  lips  of  their  horns  through 
a  tented  drapery  of  glossy  leaves,  as  if  about  to  sound  a 
challenge  to  the  blue  convolvulus  ;  dahlias,  drunk  with 
dew,  nodded  their  heavy  heads  ;  the  campanulas,  w^th 
their  bells  of  intense  blue,  grew  in  close  ranks  around  the 
edges  of  the  beds,  like  a  tiny  army  guarding  the  borders 
of  this  kingdom  of  flowers.  Color  and  perfume  floated 
like  a  spell  through  the  entire  place.  The  brilliant  plants, 
trained  into  no  formality,  sprang  up  to  heaven  with  a 
splendid  freedom.  The  walks  were  paved  with  the  blos- 
soms that  they  shed,  and  the  heavens  were  fragrant  with 
the  odors  that  they  breathed 

On  this  garden  Mr.  Compton's  window  opened ;  and  he 
would  sit  in  the  summer  time  at  his  piano,  with  the  case- 
ment flung  wide,  the  rich  perfume  of  the  flowers  floating 
in  upon  the  languid  air,  and  the  rich  music  he  awakened 
surging  over  and  under  and  through  all,  and  mingling  it- 
self inextricably  with  the  warm  breath  of  the  blossoming 
roses. 

Mr.  Compton's  playing  —  and  he  played  beautifully  — 
was  a  source  of  intense  pleasure  to  Milly,  as  she  sat  in  her 
old-fashioned  parlor  underneath,  and  watched  the  shop 
through  the  half-open  door.  Poor  child  !  of  music  as  an 
art  she  was  profoundly  ignorant.  Dominants,  subdomi- 
nants,  fifths  and  sevenths,  intervals,  contrapunta,  and 
such  like,  were  mysteries  unknown  to  her  by  name.  She 
had  never  heard  any  other  performer  than  Mr.  Compton ; 
but  those  wild  voluntaries  that  he  played  pleased  her 
mightily, — those  sad,  harmonious  wailings,  that  poured 
all  day  long  through  the  open  window,  until  toward  the 


HILLY  DOVE.  431 

close  of  day,  when  the  sun  was  setting,  they  would  burst 
into  some  triumphal  melody  that  would  sweep  her  soul 
up  along  the  path  of  golden  light  striking  heavenward, 
until  it  reached  a  goal  so  dazzlingly  beautiful  that  she 
grew  blinded  with  its  glories. 

She  was  very  happy  sitting  there  in  the  sunshine,  knit- 
tii%  and  listening  to  the  music.  Occasionally  some  vil- 
lager, in  need  of  a  ball  of  twine  or  a  pair  of  scissors,  would 
enter  the  shop,  and  then  Milly,  jumping  nimbly  from  her 
perch,  would  glide  behind  the  small  counter,  looking  in- 
tensely business-like.  Or  mayhap  it  would  be  some  great 
boy  who  had  just  come  into  possession  of  wealth  unlimited 
in  the  shape  of  a  quarter-dollar,  and  who  tremblingly  en- 
tered Milly's  little  shop,  determined,  yet  scarce  knowing 
how,  to  spend  it.  And  to  all  such  Milly  Dove  was  beau- 
tifully kind  and  patient ;  showing  them,  with  perfect  good- 
humor,  all  the  expensive  toys  to  which  they  pointed, 
although  perfectly  aware  all  the  time  of  the  extent  of  their 
means,  which  were  generally  displayed  in  their  hands  with 
the  most  confiding  simplicity.  Her  little  sales  over,  she 
would  again  retreat  to  her  parlor,  to  knit,  or,  it  may  be,  to 
take  a  good  long  peep  at  her  panorama. 

Milly  Dove  had  a  panorama.  Not  a  panorama  ever  so 
many  miles  long,  professing  to  exhibit  the  entire  world  in 
the  most  satisfactory  manner  possible  in  an  hour  and 
twenty-five  minutes.  No ;  Milly's  panorama  was,  I  must 
confess,  limited  in  extent,  but  it  possessed  endless  variety 
for  her,  and  I  do  believe  that  she  was  never  tired  of  look- 
ing at  it. 

The  panorama  was  by  no  means  complicated.  Its  ex- 
hibition was  not  encumbered  with  huge  pulleys,  and  im- 
possibly heavy  weights  and  windlasses  and  cog-wheels  to 
keep  it  moving.  But,  in  spite  of  this  insignificance  when 


432  MILLY  DOVE. 

compared  with  a  "  seven-mile  mirror,"  Milly's  panorama 
was  for  her  a  splendid  pastime.  It  was  an  endless  round 
of  enjoyment,  a  garden  of  perpetual  delights. 

This  work  of  art  consisted  of  a  large  woode*n  box  sup- 
ported on  four  long,  diverging,  attenuated  legs.  It  con- 
tained a  few  colored  prints  hung  on  hinges  from  the  top, 
one  hiding  the  other,  each  capable  of  being  lifted  inWa 
horizontal  position,  so  as  to  disclose  the  next  picture  in 
succession,  by  a  series  of  little  pulleys  of  a  primitive  char- 
acter fixed  on  the  exterior  of  the  box.  These  pictures, 
when  viewed  through  the  double  convex  lens  which  was 
fixed  in  the  front  of  the  box  at  a  proper  focal  distance, 
were  magnified  and  glorified  in  so  wonderful  and  splendid 
.  a  manner,  that  to  Milly  they  presented  the  aspect  of  illim- 
itable paintings,  unsurpassable  in  beauty  of  design  or  bril- 
liancy of  color.  How  this  treasure  of  art  had  come  into 
her  family  the  little  maiden  was  altogether  ignorant.  Her 
mother  was  possessed  of  it  long  before  Milly  made  her 
appearance  in  the  world,  and  when  dying  had  left  no  tra- 
dition of  its  history.  The  probability  was,  that  some 
wandering  exhibitor  may  have  left  it  with  Mrs.  Dove  in 
pledge  for  unpaid  board,  and  had  never  redeemed  it,  poor 
fellow ! 

But  there  it  was,  and  when  Milly  was  left  alone  in  the 
world  it  became  hers,  —  and  proud  enough  of  it  she  was, 
I  can  assure  you.  It  afforded  the  dear  child  wondrous 
delight  to  look  through  the  peep-hole,  and  draw  up  the 
paintings  one  after  the  other.  She  knew  nothing  of  his- 
tory, —  I  don't  like  her  a  bit  the  less  for  that,  —  and  the 
subjects  of  these  splendid  illustrations  would  have  re- 
mained mysteries  to  her  forever,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  Compton,  who  would  pull  the  strings  as 
she  peeped,  and,  assuming  the  air  and  manner  of  a  veri- 


MILLY  DOVE.  433 

table  showman,  explain  each  cartoon  as  it  appeared.  That 
gentleman,  however,  was  not  always  quite  certain  himself 
as  to  what  scenes  were  really  depicted  in  this  splendid 
gallery ;  but  then  he  never  hesitated  on  account  of  any 
want  of  knowledge,  but  assigned  to  each  picture  the  most 
probable  explanation  and  title  he  could  think  of.  I  have 
seeir*many  grand  battle-pieces  in  great  galleries  across  the 
sea  that  might  just  as  well  have  been  called  the  battle  of 
Pavia  as  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  and  have  looked  at  many 
a  heathen  goddess  painted  by  some  great  old  artist,  who 
might  quite  as  well  have  been  put  down  as  Moll  Flan- 
ders in  the  catalogue,  and  no  one  would  have  questioned 
the  propriety  of  the  title.  So  I  do  not  blame  Mr.  Comp- 
ton  in  the  least  for  his  impromptu  style  of  nomencla- 
ture. It  satisfied  Milly  perfectly,  and  he  had  no  other 
object. 

These  explanations  did  not,  however,  tax  Mr.  Compton's 
inventive  faculties  very  largely.  There  were  the  Pyra- 
mids of  Ghizeh,  which  he  could  not  very  well  mistake,  and 
which  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  delivering  a  very 
learned  discourse  on  the  manners  and  customs  of  the 
ancient  Egyptians,  all  carefully  extracted  from  an  ency- 
clopaedia; and  there  was  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  which 
the  Duke  of  Wellington's  nose  and  Napoleon's  coat  iden- 
tified sufficiently ;  but,  again,  there  arose  a  fiery  painting 
with  flames,  and  soldiers,  and  much  killing,  and  falling 
horses,  with  agonized  mothers  of  large  families  in  the 
fourth  stories,  which,  having  no  better  name  for  it,  Mr. 
Compton  christened  the  Battle  of  Prague ;  and  when  he 
afterward  performed  the  piece  of  music  of  that  name  on 
the  piano,  and  came  to  the  part  called  by  the  composer 
in  an  explanatory  note  "the  cries  of  the  wounded,"  there 
remained  no  shadow  of  doubt  on  Milly's  mind  that  the 

28 


434  MILLY  DOVE. 

picture  was  indeed  a  faithful  representation  of  that  terri- 
ble combat,  and  that  Mr.  Compton  was  the  best-informed 
historian  in  the  world. 

Of  late,  somehow,  Milly,  poor  child,  was  not  quite  so 
interested  in  her  panorama,  or  so  attentive  to  her  shop  as 
was  her  wont.  She  had  not  peeped  through  that  magical 
hole  for  many  days;  her  knitting  was,  I  regret  to  say, 
of  an  unusually  spasmodic  character:  when  she  sat  in 
the  sunshine  it  seemed  almost  too  gay  for  her ;  and  her 
pretty  little  face  seemed  to  have  a  cloud  of  sadness  cov- 
ering it.  But  she  welcomed  the  music  with  more  pleasure 
than  ever  ;  and  the  more  melancholy  it  was,  the  better  she 
liked  it  \  for  it  seemed  then  to  speak  to  her  in  a  language 
which  she  understood,  yet  could  not  interpret,  —  harmo- 
niously talking  of  strange  things  which  she  thought  she 
felt,  and  still  was  unable  to  comprehend.  So  she  sat  all 
day  and  listened  to  Mr.  Compton's  wild  improvisations, 
as  they  floated  over  the  flowers, till  perfume  and  harmony 
seemed  to  be  mingling,  and  she  grew  so  abstracted  in  her 
habits  that  she  had  to  be  called  thrice  by  Mrs.  Barberry, 
who  wanted  to  buy  a  flour-dredge,  before  she  thought  of 
answering. 

It  was  singular,  but  no  less  true,  that  just  at  this  time 
I  had  the  privilege  of  peeping  into  that  pure  little  maiden's 
mind,  and  observing,  in  secret,  all  its  innocent  little  oper- 
ations. It  was  a  rare  privilege,  I  know,  but  I  hope  I  love 
honor,  beauty,  and  virtue  too  much  not  to  look  upon  the 
prerogative  as  holy.  You  will  hear,  therefore,  from  me 
only  such  things  as  are  necessary  to  the  conduct  of  the 
story  I  am  endeavoring  to  relate. 

I  saw,  at  my  very  first  peep,  what  it  was  that  induced 
Milly  to  forget  her  panorama,  and  pay  such  little  heed  to 
old  Mrs.  Barberry.  The  cause  of  all  this  distraction  was 


MILLY  DOVE.  435 

a  certain  person,  of  whom  you  shall  know  more  before  I 
have  done  with  you. 

About  a  week  previous  to  the  time  I  am  speaking  of 
a  stranger  had  made  his  appearance  in  the  little  town  of 
Blossomdale,  in  which  Milly  lived ;  and  just  about  the 
same  time  Milly,  who  had  heard  of  the  stranger's  arrival 
—  as  one  hears  everything  in  a  village  —  but  had  not  seen 
him,  observed  a  man  of  singular  aspect  passing  her  shop 
frequently.  Coupling  the  two  facts  together  she  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  this  person  and  the  strange  arrival 
were  one ;  which  at  least  proves  that  Milly  Dove  was 
capable  of  inductive  reasoning. 

He  was  a  remarkable  man,  this  stranger.  Not  very 
tall,  but  rather  powerfully  built;  he  always  walked  rap- 
idly, with  his  frame  stooped  forward  from  the  hips,  as 
if  his  mind  were  in  advance  of  his  body.  His  face  was 
somewhat  narrow,  and  delicately  featured.  A  thin  mus- 
tache curled  around  a  small  mouth,  and  his  hair  was  pro- 
fuse, though  not  long.  But  it  was  in  his  eyes  that  his 
individuality  chiefly  resided,  —  eyes  that  seemed  to  gaze 
at  nothing,  and  yet  see  everything.  They  did  not  look, 
they  absorbed,  those  great  dark  eyes,  and  shed  from  out 
their  own  darkness  a  shadow  over  the  whole  face.  They 
were  eyes  truly  delightful  to  look  at,  —  as  it  is  delight- 
ful to  look  down  into  a  calm  sea,  —  and  hard  to  be  for- 
gotten. 

Milly  did  not  easily  forget  them,  I  promise  you.  They 
haunted  her  as  she  sat  alone  in  the  little  half-lit  parlor, 
and  seemed  to  glow  with  a  strange  light  in  the  dim  cor- 
ners where  the  spiders  dwelt.  She  looked  at  them,  and 
they  k>oked  at  her  all  the  livelong  day,  and  this  was  why 
she  forgovt  her  panorama, 

Now  Milly  Dove  told  Mr.  Compton  everything.     He 


436  MILLY  DOVE. 

was  her  only  friend.  He  stood  to  her  in  the  place  of  a 
parent,  and  loved  her  as  a  daughter.  Confidence  existed 
between  them  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  she  talked  to 
him  as  the  stream  flows.  So  she  soon  told  him  about  this 
stranger :  how  she  had  seen  him ;  how  his  face  haunted 
her  continually ;  how  she  kept  thinking  about  him  all 
day  long;  how  she  watched  for  him  at  the  hour  when 
it  was  usual  for  him  to  pass  her  door,  and  felt  a  sort  of 
dim,  indistinct  pleasure  when  he  passed.  All  this  she 
told  her  old  friend  simply,  truly,  naturally,  without  even 
the  remotest  idea  of  the  nature  or  origin  of  her  feelings ; 
for  Milly  was  at  that  happy  age  when  people  are  not 
learned  in  the  mysteries  of  themselves,  and  do  not  possess 
the  mournful  knowledge  which  enables  them  to  anato- 
mize their  own  hearts.  Mr.  Compton  at  first  looked  rather 
sad  at  hearing  this  naive  confession ;  but  after  a  moment 
he  laughed  and  kissed  her  fair  forehead,  saying  that  she 
would  soon  forget  this  wonderful  stranger.  Then  he  sat 
down  at  his  piano  and  played  so  wild  and  wonderful  a 
strain,  fraught  with  such  depths  of  pure  and  unconscious 
passion,  that  Milly  lay  statue-like  near  him,  and  dreamed 
so  perfectly  that  she  dreamed  no  more. 


II. 

IT  was  a  pleasant  June  day.  Through  the  open  win- 
dow in  Milly's  little  room  a  mingled  stream  of  sunshine 
and  the  breath  of  flowers  rolled  in,  filling  the  chamber 
with  light  and  perfume.  The  spiders  dozed  in  the  crev- 
ices of  the  panelled  walls,  while  their  aerial  webs  shone 
like  delicate  threads  of  silver.  The  high-shouldered  chairs 
sidled  off  into  the  corners,  as  if  they  were  ashamed  of 


MILLY  DOVE.  437 

their  age,  and  the  great  panorama,  which  stood  on  one 
side  of  the  door,  glared  with  its  huge,  eye-like  lens  at 
the  green  window,  like  a  species  of  four-legged  Cyclops. 
Milly,  as  usual,  was  sitting  in  the  sun.  Nestled  into 
that  great,  high-backed  chair,  which  was  a  world  too 
large  for  her,  she  worked  absently  at  some  intricate  femi- 
nine fabric,  —  a  fabric  it  was  that  I  believe  would  have 
driven  me  crazy  if  I  had  been  set  down  to  learn  its  mys- 
teries. There  were  dozens  of  strings  pinned  to  various 
portions  of  the  unhappy  old  chair.  More  strings  trailed 
on  the  floor,  whose  courses,  if  followed,  would  be  found 
to  terminate  in  numberless  little  balls,  that  kept  continu- 
ally rolling  off  into  the  corners  and  disturbing  the  spiders 
that  lived  on  the  first  floors  of  the  panels.  Then  each 
string  had  to  be  unpinned  every  second  minute,  and  jug- 
gled with  after  some  wondrous  fashion,  until,  having 
been  thrust,  by  a  species  of  magic  known  only  to  Milly, 
through  an  interminable  perspective  of  loops,  it  was  sol- 
emnly repinned  to  the  chair,  and  then  the  whole  process 
began  again. 

Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  complication  of  this  terri- 
ble web,  or  to  the  preoccupation  of  her  own  thoughts,  no 
Penelope  ever  made  so  many  blunders  as  Milly  Dove,  on 
that  June  morning.  Every  now  and  then  the  web  would 
come  to  a  sudden  stand-still;  a  minute  investigation  of 
certain  curious  knots  would  result  in  the  discovery  of 
some  heart-rending  error.  Then  the  vagrant  balls  would 
have  to  be  hunted  up  in  the  corners,  and  the  pin  would 
have  to  come  out,  and  with  a  pettish  toss  of  the  head  and 
a  little  pouting  of  the  under  lip,  the  child  would  tediously 
unravel  all  the  false  work  and  begin  again. 

Sometimes  she  would  let  it  drop  altogether,  and  gaze 
absently  through  the  open  window,  as  if  she  were  watch- 


438  MILLY  DOVE. 

ing  the  humming-birds  that  hung  before  the  golden-lipped 
tubes  of  the  trumpet-honeysuckle ;  or  she  would  turn 
toward  the  desolate  panorama,  that  seemed  to  gaze  re- 
proachfully at  her  with  its  single  eye,  and  ponder  over 
the  propriety  of  taking  another  peep  at  that  bloody  Battle 
of  Prague,  or  the  extraordinary  representation  of  the  Is- 
raelites gathering  the  manna  in  the  desert,  —  which  said 
manna  seemed  to  have  been  made  into  very  respectable 
and  well-baked  quartern  loaves  before  it  fell. 

Milly's  reveries,  whatever  they  were,  were  interrupted 
by  the  entrance  of  Master  Dick  Boby,  the  eldest  son  of 
Judge  Boby,  who  was  the  richest  and  greatest  man  in  the 
village.  Master  Boby  had  acquired  —  probably  by  in- 
heritance—  the  sum  of  half  a  dollar,  and  immediately 
upon  coming  into  possession  of  his  property  had  set  off 
for  Milly's  shop,  uncertain  as  to  whether  he  would  pur- 
chase her  entire  stock  or  simply  confine  himself  to  the 
acquisition  of  a  stick  of  molasses  candy.  Milly,  with  her 
pleasant  smile,  was  behind  the  counter  in  an  instant, 
awaiting  the  commands  of  the  young  squire. 

"  What 's  them  guns  apiece,  Miss  Milly  ] "  inquired 
Master  Boby,  pointing  to  a  couple  of  flimsy  fowling-pieces 
that  stood  in  the  corner. 

"  Six  dollars  apiece,  sir." 

"  I  guess  you  'd  take  half-price  for  them  if  a  body  was  to 
buy  both  ?  "  said  the  young  millionnaire,  half  inquiringly, 
as  if  he  had  only  to  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pull 
out  the  money. 

"  Well,"  said  Milly,  "  I  did  n't  buy  them ;  they  were 
here  when  father  died,  and  as  they  Ve  been  so  long  on 
my  hands,  I  'd  be  glad  to  sell  them  cheap.  You  can 
have  them  both  for  seven  dollars  and  fifty  cents,  if  you 
want  them,  Master  Dick." 


MILLY  DOVE.  439 

"0,  I  don't  want  them;  only  father  might,  if  his  own 
gun  was  to  burst.  What's  the  price  of  them  skates, 
Miss  Milly?" 

"  A  dollar  fifty,  sir.  They  are  capital  skates,  and  came 
all  the  way  from  York.  But  what  do  you  want  of  skates 
this  weather,  Master  Dick  1 " 

"0,  I  didn't  know  but  I  might  lose  my  own  skates 
next  winter,  you  know,  so  I  thought  I  'd  ask»  Are  you 
going  to  the  circus  show  this  evening,  Miss  Milly  ?  for  if 
you  'd  like  to  go,  I  can  get  tickets  from  father,  and  I  '11 
take  you."  And  Master  Dick  looked  admiringly  at  the 
pretty  little  maiden. 

"Thank,  you  kindly,  sir;  but  I  don't  think  Mr.  Comp- 
ton  would  like  me  to  go.  He  says  the  circus  is  a  bad 
place." 

"  He  don't  know  nothing,"  answered  Master  Dick,  sur- 
lily ;  "  but  if  you  won't  go,  I  know  one  who  will.  Give 
me  an  ounce  of  molasses  candy,  and  half  an  ounce  of 
peppermint,  Miss  Milly." 

Milly  had  just  opened  the  drawer  containing  the 
confections  demanded  by  Master  Dick,  and  was  about 
measuring  out  the  required  quantity  of  molasses  and 
peppermint,  when  she  saw  something  through  the  window 
that  made  her  suddenly  stop.  A  gentleman  was  march- 
ing slowly  down  the  street.  He  appeared  to  be  lost  in 
reverie,  for  his  head  was  thrown  back,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  on  vacancy,  while  he  moved  on  apparently  uncon- 
scious of  the  existence  of  everybody,  himself  included. 
He  was  a  pleasant  gentleman,  too,  and  seemed  to  be  oc- 
cupied with  pleasing  thoughts,  for  a  sort  of  half-born 
smile  played  around  his  thin  lips,  seeming  always  on  the 
point  of  becoming  a  laugh  but  never  fulfilling  its  prom- 
ise. This  gentleman  had  just  arrived  opposite  to  Milly 's 


440  MILLY  DOVE. 

door,  when  his  reverie  was  suddenly  and  most  unex- 
pectedly interrupted  by  a  big  stone.  This  big  stone  was 
a  stone  of  infamous  habits.  It  lurked  under  a  specious 
coating  of  clay,  seemingly  soft  and  elastic  in  its  nature, 
but  all  the  while  turning  up  one  sharp  and  treacherous 
edge,  that  to  the  foot  of  the  tight-booted  and  unwary 
pedestrian  caused  unutterable  tortures.  It  was  a  Tar- 
tuffe  among  stones,  —  hypocritical,  velvety,  inducing  con- 
fidence, —  but  woe  to  the  toe  that  lit  upon  its  venomous 
edge  ! 

Well,  of  course  this  thoughtful  gentleman  marched 
straight  upon  this  assassin  of  a  stone.  Tschut !  A  terri- 
ble "  thud  "  of  toes  against  the  treacherous  edge,  a  wild 
flinging  out  of  arms  in  a  vain  attempt  at  equilibrium,  a 
convulsive  ejaculation  which  I  hope  nobody  heard,  and 
our  pedestrian  measured  his  length  in  the  dust.  He  rose 
in  a  moment,  looked  reproachfully  at  the  stone  as  if  to 
upbraid  it  for  its  misconduct,  then,  recalled  probably  by 
some  unusual  sensation,  he  looked  down  at  his  legs. 
Alas !  across  his  left  knee  there  was  a  great  gaping  split 
in  his  trousers,  through  which  a  wide  vista  of  linen  was 
visible.  The  poor  gentleman  gazed  ruefully  at  this  scene 
of  destruction;  looked  around,  and  then  again  at  his 
knee ;  then  tried  to  walk  a  step  or  two ;  stopped,  looked 
at  his  knee  once  more,  and  seemed  to  meditate  pro- 
foundly on  his  position. 

While  rapt  in  this  painful  reverie,  the  victim  of  that 
abominable  stone  was  startled  by  a  very  sweet  little  voice 
at  his  elbow.  This  voice,  belonging  to  Milly  Dove,  said, 
"  Please,  sir,  if  you  will  step  into  the  shop,  I  will  mend  it 
for  you." 

The  gentleman  turned  round,  and  gave  a  rapid  glance 
at  the  sunny,  girlish  face  that  looked  up  into  his  with 


MILLY  DOVE.  441 

such  a  frank,  easy  expression,  as  if  it  was  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  that  he  should  fall,  and  that  she  should 
come  out  and  offer  to  mend  his  trousers. 

"  Thank  you,  child  ! "  said  he,  simply.  "  I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you.  What  is  your  name  1 " 

"  Milly  Dove,  sir." 

"  And  this  is  your  father's  shop,  I  suppose  ? "  And  the 
stranger  glanced  round  as  he  entered,  with  a 'half-smile 
at  the  varied  assortment  of  goods  that  it  contained.  It 
was  quite  deserted ;  for  Master  Dick  Boby,  left  alone 
with  the  candy,  had,  I  regret  to  say,  helped  himself  and 
departed. 

.  "  No,  sir ;  it 's  mine  ! "  answered  Milly,  poking  in  her 
pocket  for  her  needle-box. 

"  Yours !  why,  you  are  young  to  be  at  the  head  of  an 
establishment." 

"  I  was  sixteen  my  last  birthday,  sir.  Will  you  come 
into  the  inside  room,  if  you  please,  so  that  you  may  put 
your  foot  upon  a  chair "?  " 

The  stranger  did  as  he  was  bidden,  and  Milly's  nimble 
fingers  were  soon  busily  drawing  together  the  jagged 
edges  of  that  gaping  rent  in  his  injured  trousers.  He 
looked  down  upon  her  with  a  wondering  gaze. 

"  I  suppose  some  of  your  relatives  live  with  you  here1?" 
he  said,  after  a  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  studying 
her  features  intently. 

"No,  sir  ;  I  am  alone." 

"  Alone ! " 

"  No ;  that  is  —  not  exactly  alone.  Mr.  Compton 
lodges  up-stairs." 

"  Mr.  Compton  ? "  said  the  stranger,  a  sort  of  dark 
shadow  falling  across  his  face  like  a  veil.  "  Who  is  Mr. 
Compton  ?  A  young  man  1 " 


442  MILLY  DOVE.   * 

"  A  friend  of  my  mother's,  sir.  He  lives  here  all  the 
year  round,  and  is  a  dear,  pleasant  gentleman.  He 's 
quite  young,  too ;  not  more  than  fifty-six." 

"  Ah  !  "  and  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Breeches  seemed 
to  breathe  more  freely.  "  That  is  young  indeed  !  How 
long  have  you  been  keeping  shop  ? " 

"  Two  years,  sir.  My  mother  died  about  that  time, 
and  the  neighbors  were  all  very  good  to  me  when  I  began. 
I  think  it  will  do  now,  sir  !  "  * 

"Thanks!  thanks!"  replied  the  stranger,  scarce  giving 
a  glance  at  the  neat  seam  across  his  knee.  "  You  are  an 
excellent  little  workwoman."  And  as  he  spoke  he  seated 
himself  deliberately  in  Milly's  high-backed  chair,  much  to 
that  young  lady's  surprise.  "You  have  a  pretty  room 
here,"  he  continued,  looking  round  him  approvingly,  — 
"  a  very  pretty  room  !  The  sunlight  gushing  in  through 
that  window,  and  parting,  as  it  were  to  make  good  its  en- 
trance, the  honeysuckles  that  wave  before  it,  has  a  charm- 
ing effect.  Is  it  you  who  take  care  of  the  flowers  out 
there  1 " 

"  0,  there  's  not  much  to  do  now,"  said  Milly,  mod- 
estly. "  Mr.  Compton  made  the  garden,  and  now  I  help 
him  a  little.  They  grow  there  so  nicely,  the  flowers  do  ! 
And  in  the  spring  I  freshen  up  the  beds  a  little,  and  weed 
the  walks,  and  clip  off  the  dead  branches,  and  I  think 
the  sun  and  the  rain  do  the  rest." 

"  Hum  !  that 's  prettily  said  !  " 

Poor  Milly  grew  scarlet  at  the  tone  of  easy  assurance 
in  which  this  approbation  was  uttered.  This  gentleman 
seemed  to  have  an  air  of  the  world  about  him  that  some- 
how alarmed  her,  she  knew  not  why,  —  his  walk,  his  way 
of  speech,  his  manner,  were  all  so  different  from  those  of 
the  loutish  villagers  to  whom  she  had  been  accustomed. 


MILLY  DOVE.  443 

He  was  even  unlike  Mr.  Compton,  who  to  Milly,  until 
then,  had  been  the  highest  type  of  human  perfection. 

"  I  'd  like  to  live  in  a  room  like  this ! "  muttered  the 
stranger  half  aloud,  gazing  round  him  with  evident  pleas- 
ure. "  It  has  a  sweet,  thoughtful  air ;  and  that  garden 
outside  would  fill  me  with  poetry.  I  'd  like  very  much 
indeed  to  live  here  !  " 

"  Then  why  don't  you  come  1 "  was  on  the  tip  of  Milly's 
tongue ;  but  she  suddenly  recollected  herself  in  time,  and 
so  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  ever  read,  Miss  Milly  Dove  1 "  was  the  next 
question,  as  the  visitor  turned  abruptly  to  the  young 
maiden. 

«<  No  —  yes  —  that  is  —  sometimes,"  was  the  alarmed 
reply. 

"  Which  means  that  you  do  not  read  at  all  1 "  said  the 
stranger,  gravely. 

Milly  looked  as  if  she  was  immediately  about  to  tuck 
the  end  of  her  little  apron  into  her  eyes,  and  weep  herself 
away. 

"Well,"  continued  he,  "that  can  be  remedied;  but 
Mr.  Compton  should  have  given  you  books." 

"Sir,"  said  Milly  stoutly,  quick  to  espouse  her  friend's 
cause,  though  unable  to  defend  her  own,  — "  Sir,  Mr. 
Compton  knows  a  great  deal  more,  in  fact,  than  any  one 
I  e*er  saw,  a.nd  everything  that  he  does  is  right." 

The  stranger  laughed.  "You  are  a  chivalrous  but 
illogical  little  maiden,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  insufferable 
patronage. 

"I  may  not  read  much,"  said  Milly,  flushing  up,  "but 
I  have  a  panorama." 

"  0,  you  have  a  panorama  1  A  panorama  of  what  1 
'  Let  us  see  this  wonder  that  supplies  the  place  of  books." 


444  MILLY  DOVE. 

"  Shall  I  show  it  to  you,  sir  1 "  asked  Milly  timidly. 

"Certainly;  but  before  profiting  by  your  kindness,  I 
must  introduce  myself  formally.  I  am  Mr.  Alexander 
Winthrop,  a  poor  gentleman,  with  enough  for  his  appe- 
tites, and  too  little  for  his  desires.  I  am  fond  of  travel- 
ling, books,  and  thinking.  I  am  only  twenty-five  years 
old,  although  I  look  thirty.  I  live  close  to  New  York, 
and  am  at  present  at  Blossomdale  on  business.  Now,  you 
know  all  that  I  intend  you  to  know  about  me ;  so  we  will 
go  on  with  our  panorama." 

This  off-hand  introduction  was  delivered  with  such  grav- 
ity that  poor  Milly  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 
At  first,  she  thought  he  was  laughing  at  her,  but  on 
looking  at  his  eyes  she  could  not  detect  the  slightest 
twinkle  of  merriment ;  so  she  nodded  her  little  head  to 
Mr.  Alexander  Winthrop,  as  if  to  say,  "  All  fight,  I  know 
you,"  and  then  proceeded  to  introduce  him  to  the  panorama. 

"  This,"  said  Milly  in  a  solemn  voice,  as  she  made  him 
put  his  eye  to  the  peep-hole,  and  proceeded  to  pull  the 
strings  that  lifted  the  pictures,  "  this  is  the  invasion  of 
Mexico  by  the  Spaniards.  The  man  in  the  big  boat  is 
Cortes,  a  very  cruel  man  indeed ;  and  the  man  on  the 
shore  is  Montezuma,  the  king  of  Mexico,  who  may  be 
known  by  his  red  skin." 

"  Hem  !  "  coughed  Mr.  Alexander.  "  How  do  you  know 
that  this  is  the  invasion  of  Mexico  1 " 

"  Mr.  Compton  told  me,  sir." 

"  0,  Mr.  Compton  told  you !  Then  it 's  all  right,  of 
course.  But,"  he  continued,  muttering  to  himself,  "if 
Mr.  Compton  is  right,  Cortes  dressed  exceedingly  like 
William  Penn;  and  Montezuma  would  make  a  capital 
North  American  Indian." 

"  This  picture,"  continued  Milly,  pulling  another  string, 


MILLY  DOVE.  445 

"  represents  the  great  Pyramids  of  Egypt,  built  by  various 
kings  to  serve  for  their  tombs.  The  ancient  Egyptians 
were  far  advanced  in  civilization,  while  the  rest  of  the 
globe  was  plunged  in  the  obscurity  of  ignorance.  Their 
chief  god  was  Osiris,  and  the  priesthood  was  so  powerful 
that  the  government,  in  truth,  was  an  ecclesiastical  one. 
The  ancient  Egyptians  were  in  the  habit  of  placing  a 
skeleton  at  the  head  of  the  table  when  they  feasted,  for 
the  purpose  of  reminding  them  of  their  mortality,  and  it 
is  believed  that  from  them  first  sprang  the  art  of  embalm- 
ing bodies.  They  were  a  highly  commercial  people,  and 
found  large  markets  for  the  products  of  their  industry 
and  art,  in  the  ancient  cities  of  Greece  and  Rome." 

"Why,  child,  where  did  you  learn  this?"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Alexander,  gazing  with  astonishment  on  the  little 
maiden,  who  ran  off  this  farrago  of  learning  with  the  glib- 
ness  of  a  lecturer  on  ancient  history,  looking  all  the  while 
exceedingly  proud  of  her  knowledge. 

"  Mr.  Compton  told  me,"  she  answered  proudly. 

Mr.  Alexander  could  no  longer  contain  himself,  but 
burst  into  a  shout  of  laughter  that  made  Milly's  ears 
tingle.  Her  round  cheeks  flushed,  and  the  tears  rose  to 
her  eyes.  Poor  little  thing  !  She  thought  this  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Winthrop  exceedingly  rude,  and  yet  she  could  not 
feel  angry  with  him. 

"  Well,  what 's  the  next  picture  1 "  he  asked,  as  soon  as 
he  had  recovered  from  his  mirth,  and  without  making  the 
slightest  apology  for  his  improper  behavior. 

"  It 's  the  Battle  of  the  Nile,"  answered  Milly,  rather 
sullenly,  for  she  did  not  exactly  like  the  merciless  laugh 
of  her  new  friend. 

"  I  was  there  all  the  while,"  chimed  in  Mr.  Alexander. 

"  You  could  n't.     It  happened  ever  so  long  ago,"  an- 


446  MILLY  DOVE. 

swered  Milly  quickly,  delighted  at  finding  Mr.  Alexander 
out  in  a  fib. 

That  gentleman  was  on  the  point  of  going  off  into 
another  fit  of  merriment,  when  a  wild  prelude  on  a  piano 
wavered  harmoniously  through  the  window.  After  wan- 
dering up  and  down  the  keys  for  a  short  time,  striking 
out  fragments  of  melodies,  and  fluttering  uncertainly  from 
one  to  the  other,  as  a  butterfly  roams  from  bud  to  bud,  not 
knowing  which  to  choose,  the  performer  at  length  struck 
on  a  theme  that  seemed  to  satisfy  him,  and  then  poured 
out  his  entire  soul.  That  it  was  a  voluntary,  one  could 
discern  in  an  instant,  from  the  occasional  irregularity  of 
the  rhythm,  and  lack  of  proper  sequence  between  the 
parts ;  but  it  was  so  wild,  so  original,  so  mournful,  so  full 
of  broken  utterances  of  passion,  that  one  might  have  im- 
agined it  the  wail  of  a  lost  angel,  outside  the  gates  of  that 
paradise  which  he  saw  but  could  not  enjoy. 

"  That  is  a  great  performer,"  said  Mr.  Alexander,  rising. 
"  I  must  go  and  see  him." 

"  It 's  Mr.  Compton,"  cried  Milly,  eagerly ;  "  he  does 
not  like  to  be  disturbed.  You  must  not  go  now." 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  Mr.  Alexander,  very  coolly. 
"Where's  the  stairs?  0,  here  !—  all  right!"  And 
before  she  could  detain  him,  he  had  bounded  up  the 
stairs,  and  was  gone. 

"  I  make  no  apology  for  coming  in  here  in  this  way," 
said  Mr.  Alexander,  as  he  pushed  open  Mr.  Compton's 
door,  "  because,  if  you  don't  want  people  to  rush  in  on 
you  unannounced,  you  should  not  play  so  well,  nor  im- 
provise such  original  themes." 

"  You  are  an  artist,  then  1 "  said  Mr.  Compton,  rising 
in  some  surprise  at  this  sudden  intrusion.  "All  such 
have  a  right  to  enter  here." 


MILLY  DOVE.  447 

"  Enough  of  an  artist  to'  comprehend  you,"  said  the 
young  man,  bluntly.  "  You  are  an  artist,  Mr.  Compton, 
and  have  never  done  anything  but  toy  with  art.  More 
shame  for  you  !  " 

"Who  is  my  lecturer?"  said  Mr.  Compton,  rather 
sternly. 

"  My  name  is  Alexander  Winthrop." 

"  What !  he  who  —  " 

"  Hush  !  "  cried  the  young  man,  lifting  his  finger ;  for 
at  that  moment  Milly  appeared,  with  flushed  cheeks,  on 
the  threshold  of  the  door.  "  I  am  only  Alexander  Win- 
throp. I  tore  my  trousers  by  a  fall  "opposite  to  this 
house.  This  little  fairy,"  pointing  to  Milly,  "  mended 
them  for  me.  I  heard  you  playing;  I  ran  up  stairs. 
Now  you  know  all  about  me." 

"  Then  you  must  be  the  stranger  of  whom  Milly  has  so 
often  spoken  to  me,  as  passing  the  door  every  day,"  said 
Mr.  Compton,  with  a  bland  ignorance  of  the  incautious- 
ness  of  his  remark,  and  totally  heedless  of  Milly's  ago- 
nized telegraphings  to  make  him  stop. 

"  0,  then,  the  little  fairy  knew  me  before  !  "  exclaimed 
Mr.  Alexander,  eagerly.  "  So  we  were  old  acquaintances, 
Miss  Milly^" 

Milly  said  nothing,  but  appeared  to  have  suddenly 
remembered  that  her  shop  had  been  left  unprotected,  and 
disappeared  as  if  by  magic. 

"  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you,  Mr.  Compton,"  said 
Mr.  Alexander,  looking  after  her. 

Mr.  Compton  sighed.  "  Let  us  go  into  the  garden," 
he  said  ;  and  they  went  out  together. 


448  MILLY  DOVE. 

III. 

Two  months  after  this,  Milly  Dove  sat  in  her  little 
room,  reading.  Those  wondrous  fabrics  on  which  she  used 
to  labor  with  such  patience  were  gone.  There  was  dust 
on  the  panorama  ;  its  single  eye  was  dim  and  melancholy. 
No  more  balls  disturbed  the  repose  of  the  fat  old  spiders 
in  the  panels;  the  very  shop  itself  seemed  to  have  an 
uncared-for  look. 

The  reason  of  all  this  was  that  Milly  Dove  had  become 
a  student,  —  a  hard,  close,  unwearying  student,  —  and  the 
books  that  she  read  were  given  to  her  by  Mr.  Alexander. 
One  author  in  particular  pleased  her  mightily.  A  man 
named  IvanThorle  had  lately  astonished  the  world  with  an 
alternate  succession  of  works  of  philosophy  and  fiction.  In 
both  paths  did  he  seem  to  be  equally  at  home.  His  nov- 
els were  tender,  impassioned,  truthful,  and  always  breath- 
ing the  sublimest  scorn  for  everything  mean  and  unholy. 
His  philosophy  was  still  more  wonderful,  because  it  was  so 
clear.  The  progress  of  man  was  always  his  theme.  The 
gradual  amalgamation  of  races ;  the  universal  equalization 
of  climate  from  the  cultivation  of  the  entire  globe ;  the 
disappearance  of  poverty  from  the  earth  before  the  influ- 
ence of  machinery,  which  labored  for  all ;  the  consequent 
improvement  of  the  physical  condition  of  our  race ;  the 
abolishment  of  crime ;  —  in  short,  the  apogee  of  the  world. 
On  all  this  he  expatiated  with  a  profundity  of  thought 
and  simplicity  of  expression  that  made  him  at  once  the 
deepest  and  clearest  of  writers.  Ivan  Thorle,  then,  opened 
a  new  world  for  Milly.  For  the  first  time  she  compre- 
hended the  true  beauty  of  life,  and  experienced  those  de- 
licious sensations  which  one  experiences  when  beginning 
to  observe,  —  an  epoch,  let  me  tell  you,  that  comes  much 


MILLY  DOVE.  449 

later  than  one  imagines.  Thus  a  trinity  of  genius  and 
goodness  reigned  supreme  in  Milly  Dove's  little  heart,  — 
Mr.  Compton,  Mr.  Alexander,  and  Ivan  Thorle,  —  and 
although  her  reason  placed  Mr.  Compton  first,  as  being 
the  oldest  friend,  and  Ivan  Thorle  next,  as  being  the 
greatest  genius,  yet  I  doubt  much  if  that  little  maiden's 
heart  did  not  put  Mr.  Alexander  Winthrop,  her  affianced 
lover,  high  above  all. 

There  was  one  thing  that  grieved  this  dear  child,  and 
it  was  so  strange  a  grief  for  her  to  have  had  at  that  period 
that  it  seems  a  mystery  to  me  how  she  ever  could  have 
had  it.  It  was  that  Mr.  Alexander  was  not  a  great  writer. 
She  loved  him  very  dearly,  and  she  knew  that  Mr.  Comp- 
ton loved  him,  and  they  talked  very  learnedly  together 
for  hours  at  a  time.  He  was  very  clever,  this  Mr.  Alex- 
ander Winthrop  ;  but  oh  !  if  he  would  only  write  books  like 
Ivan  Thorle !  If  he  would  create  those  dear  stories,  — 
so  pure,  so  good,  and  so  true  !  If  he  would  make  those 
splendid  books  that  made  every  one  love  his  fellow-men 
better  when  he  had  read  them,  and  which  were  so  purely 
written  that  a  child  might  understand  them  !  If  he  would 
only  do  this,  she  told  him  many  times,  as  she  clung  to  his 
breast,  she  would  be  as  happy  as  the  humming-birds  that 
lived  outside,  forever  in  the  sunshine !  And  Mr.  Alex- 
ander would  stroke  her  brown  hair,  and  kiss  her  white 
forehead,  and,  smiling  mysteriously,  say,  "  Some  time,  per- 
haps— "  But  he  did  not  write  books,  and  Milly  Dove 
was  sad. 

Her  sadness  was  now,  however,  for  the  moment  lost  in 
the  perusal  of  Ivan  Thorle's  last  book,  "  The  Ladder  of 
Stars,"  —  a  strange  mixture  of  romance  and  philosophy ; 
and  Milly  pored  over  it  in  her  high-backed  chair,  while 
the  humming-birds  outside  looked  in  at  her  with  their 

29 


450  MILLY  DOVE. 

sharp,  cunning  eyes,  and  said  to  themselves,  as  they  saw 
her  rosy  lips,  "Bless  us!  where  there  are  flowers  there 
must  be  loads  of  honey.  Let  us  go  in  and  get  it !  "  But 
now  and  then  these  rosy  flowers  had  a  strange  way  of 
opening  with  a  laughing  sound,  and  showing  rows  of 
white  seed  inside,  in  a  manner  unlike  any  flower  ever 
before  seen ;  so  that  the  humming-birds  thought  they 
might  be  dangerous  flowers,  and  did  not  go  in.  Milly 
was  reading  one  of  the  most  beautiful  passages  in  the 
"Ladder  of  Stars,"  when  she  heard  a  step  behind  her. 
She  turned,  and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  ladies 
she  had  ever  seen,  standing  in  the  doorway.  A  tall, 
proud-looking  lady  she  was,  with  bright  e37es  and  fierce 
lip,  and  the  smallest  hands  in  the  world.  And  such 
dress  !  So  rich  and  elegant  and  flowing  !  Milly  thought 
she  was  a  fairy.  Being  naturally  polite,  however,  even  to 
fairies,  the  little  maiden  rose  and  advanced  timidly  to  this 
sultana.  The  lady  did  not  keep  her  long  in  suspense. 

"Your  name  is  Milly  Dove1?"  she  said,  in  a  command- 
ing voice. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Milly,  half  frightened  at  the  tone 
of  the  question. 

"  You  are  going  to  marry  a  man  calling  himself  Alex- 
ander Winthrop.  Is  it  not  so  1 " 

"Yes,  ma'am."  Milly's  limbs  began  to  tremble  at  this 
point. 

"  You  must  not  marry  him." 

"  Why,  ma'am  ^ "  Milly's  strength  began  to  come  back 
a  little. 

"  Because  he  would  make  you  unhappy." 

"  How  do  you  know,  ma'am  1 "  0  Milly  Dove  !  Milly 
Dove !  where  did  you  pick  up  the  Socratic  mode  of  rea- 
soning ] 


MILLY  DOVE.  451 

"  Because  I  know  it,"  said  the  sultana,  stamping  her 
foot.  "  You  cannot  marry  him.  He  loves  me.  I  know 
he  does  ! "  she  continued  passionately. 

"  He  loves  me  better  ! "  said  Hilly,  quietly.  "  I  know 
it,  for  he  told  me  so." 

"You!  love  you  better!  Listen,  child.  You  do  not 
know  this  man.  He  is  proud,  wealthy,  learned,  a  genius, 
and  courted  by  all  the  world.  His  sphere  in  life  rolls 
through  another  orbit  than  yours.  His  genius,  his  tastes, 
his  friendships,  will  all  separate  him  from  you.  He  thinks 
he  loves  you  now ;  well,  in  three  months  he  will  be  dis- 
enchanted. He  will  neglect  you,  —  ill-treat  you,  perhaps, 
—  laugh  at  your  ill-breeding,  sport  with  your  ignorance, 
and  break  your  heart.  Be  warned  in  time.  Here  !  I  am 
rich.  You  shall  have  money,  as  much  money  as  you 
wish,  if  you  fly  this  place  and  promise  never  to  see  Alex- 
ander Winthrop  again.  I  will  make  you  wealthy,  hap- 
py, everything  you  wish,  only  leave  me  my  love !  leave 
me  my  love  ! "  She  held  out  a  purse  to  Milly  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  splendid  form  literally  shook  with  pas- 
sion. 

Poor  Milly  was  thunderstruck ;  she  knew  not  what  to 
do.  0,  how  she  wished  for  either  Alexander  or  Mr. 
Compton ! 

"Ma'am,"  said  she  at  last,  "I  don't  want  money.  I 
never  knew  that  Mr.  Alexander  was  rich ;  but  it  makes 
no  matter  to  me  whether  he  is  or  not.  I  know  he  loves 
me  ;  for  he  said  so,  and  he  never  tells  a  lie.  Therefore  I 
cannot  do  as  you  wish  me.  I  am  sorry,  ma'am,  that  you 
should  love  Mr.  Alexander  too." 

"But  you  must,  I  tell  you, — you  must,  girl!  You 
shall  not  wed  him  !  He  is  mine  !  Do  you  not  know  —  " 

"  She  does  not  know,  Miss  Helen  De  Rham,"  said  Mr. 


452  MILLY  DOVE. 

Alexander  himself,  stepping,  at  this  juncture,  out  of  the 
shop,  and  putting  his  arm  around  Milly's  waist. 

"  0,  you  are  here,  sir  ! "  said  Miss  De  Kham,  with  a 
scornful  curl  of  her  upper  lip.  "  Enjoying  love  in  a  cot- 
tage, which,  no  doubt,  you  taste  merely  as  a  literary  ex- 
perience to  be  made  serviceable  in  your  next  book.  It  is 
a  pretty  idyl." 

"  Madam,"  said  Alexander,  "let  me  hear  no  unworthy 
sneers  against  a  love  so  pure  that  you  could  not  under- 
stand it.  Milly,  as  this  lady  has  thought  fit  to  intrude 
herself  on  my  privacy  and  yours,  it  is  fit  that  you  should 
learn  the  history  of  our  association." 

"  Tell  it,  sir,  by  all  means,"  said  Miss  De  Rham,  seat- 
ing herself  in  a  chair;  "you  are  accustomed  to  weave 
romances." 

"  I  tell  the  truth,  madam,  always ;  and  if  I  did  not 
this  pure  mind  here  is  too  true  a  touchstone  not  to  detect 
the  falsehood.  Milly,  that  handsome  lady  there  was  once 
my  friend.  I  believe  I  loved  her,  for  she  was  beautiful 
and  gifted.  We  were  much  together,  and  I  understand 
that  she  expressed  admiration  for  my  talents.  I  thought 
her  honest,  and  I  loved  her  for  her  honesty ;  for  she  was 
one  of  those  who  could  talk  with  that  frank  bluntness 
that  so  well  simulates  sincerity.  Well,  she  was  ambitious ; 
she  wanted  to  be  a  goddess,  when  she  was  only  a  woman ; 
she  wished  to  write,  when  God  had  only  given  her  the 
power  to  appreciate.  She  came  to  me  one  day  with  a 
poem,  —  a  beautiful  poem,  which  she  said  she  had  writ- 
ten. I  got  it  published  for  her ;  it  was  admired  every- 
where. On  the  strength  of  it  she  rose  to  the  reputation 
of  a  woman  of  genius.  Well,  Milly,  it  was  all  a  lie!  — 
an  acted,  a  spoken,  a  perpetuated  lie !  —  the  poem  was 
not  hers.  It  was  written  for  her  by  a  protege  of  hers,  who 


MILLY  DOVE.  453 

betrayed  her  trust,  and  the  deception  was  discovered.  I 
left  Miss  De  Rham,  Milly  Dove,  to  the  shame  which,  if 
she  had  a  heart,  ought  to  have  eaten  it  out." 

"  And  you  could  not  discover  the  difference  between  an 
innocent  piece  of  vanity  and  a  crime !  0  Ivan  Thorle, 
in  spite  of  all  your  knowledge  you  know  not  the  world  !  " 

"I  do  not  wish  to  know  it  better,  Miss  De  Rham. 
Leave  me  and  my  bride  in  ignorance  and  peace.  Go, 
madam,  back  to  your  town  luxury  and  refined  atmosphere, 
where  pretty  names  are  given  to  bad  deeds.  I  wish  to 
remain  unmolested  with  that  pure  love  which  will  ever 
be  a  mystery  to  you.  Go !  " 

"What  name  did  she  call  you1?"  cried  Milly  Dove, 
breathlessly,  as  the  proud  lady  swept  scornfully  out 
through  the  little  shop. 

"Milly,  you  may  now  know  what  I  have  long  con- 
cealed. I  am  Ivan  Thorle  ! " 

"  You  1  you  1  0,  I  am  so  glad  —  so  glad  —  so  glad  ! 
Dear  Alexander,  I  have  now  nothing  to  wish  for." 

"But  I  have,  dear  Milly  !" 

Those  who  have  read  Alexander  Winthrop's  latest  and 
best  novel,  "  The  Village  Bride,"  will  see  there  how  hap- 
pily he  and  Milly  and  Mr.  Compton  lived  together ;  and 
they  will  recognize  in  the  lecturer  on  Woman's  Rights  the 
portrait  of  Miss  De  Rham. 


454  THE  DKAGON  FANG. 


THE  DRAGON  FANG  POSSESSED   BY 
THE   CONJURER  PIOU-LU. 


CHAPTER   OF   THE   MIRACULOUS   DRAGON   FANG. 

"COME,  men  and  women,  and  little  people  of  Tching- 
tou,  come  and  listen.  The  small  and  ignoble  person  who 
annoys  you  by  his  presence  is  the  miserable  conjurer 
known  as  Piou-Lu.  Everything  that  can  possibly  be 
desired  he  can  give  you ;  —  charms  to  heal  dissensions  in 
your  noble  and  illustrious  families ;  —  spells  by  which 
beautiful  little  people  without  style  may  become  learned 
Bachelors,  and  reign  high  in  the  palaces  of  literary  com- 
position;—  Supernatural  red  pills,  with  which  you  can 
cure  your  elegant  and  renowned  diseases ;  —  wonderful 
incantations,  by  which  the  assassins  of  any  members  of 
your  shining  and  virtuous  families  can  be  discovered  and 
made  to  yield  compensation,  or  be  brought  under  the  just 
eye  of  the  Brother  of  the  Sun.  What  is  it  that  you 
want  1  This  mean  little  conjurer,  who  now  addresses  you, 
can  supply  all  your  charming  and  refreshing  desires ;  for 
he  is  known  everywhere  as  Piou-Lu,  the  possessor  of  the 
ever-renowned  and  miraculous  Dragon  Fang ! " 

There  was  a  little,  dry  laugh,  and  a  murmur  among  the 
crowd  of  idlers  that  surrounded  the  stage  erected  by  Piou- 
Lu  in  front  of  the  Hotel  of  the  Thirty-two  Virtues. 
Fifth-class  Mandarins  looked  at  fourth-class  Mandarins 
and  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  We  who  are  educated 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  455 

men  know  what  to  think  of  this  fellow."  But  the  fourth- 
class  Mandarins  looked  haughtily  at  the  fifth-class,  as  if 
they  had  no  business  to  smile  at  their  superiors.  The 
crowd,  however,  composed  as  it  was  principally  of  small 
traders,  barbers,  porcelain-tinkers,  and  country  people, 
gazed  with  open  mouths  upon  the  conjurer,  who,  clad  in 
a  radiant  garment  of  many  colors,  strutted  proudly  up 
and  down  upon  his  temporary  stage. 

"What  is  a  Dragon  Fang,  ingenious  and  well-educated 
conjurer  1 "  at  last  inquired  Wei-chang-tze,  a  solemn-look- 
ing Mandarin  of  the  third  class,  who  was  adorned  with  a 
sapphire  button,  and  a  one-eyed  peacock's  feather.  "  What 
is  a  Dragon  Fang  *? " 

"  Is  it  possible,"  asked  Piou-Lu,  "  that  the  wise  and 
illustrious  son  of  virtue,  the  Mandarin  Wei-chang-tze, 
does  not  know  what  a  Dragon  Fang  is  1 "  and  the  conjurer 
pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  Mandarin,  as  a  hare  at  a  bark- 
ing dog. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  Mandarin  Wei-chang- 
tze,  looking  rather  ashamed  of  his  having  betrayed  such 
ignorance,  "one  does  not  pass  his  examinations  for  noth- 
ing. I  merely  wished  that  you  should  explain  to  those 
ignorant  people  here  what  a  Dragon  Fang  is;  that  was 
why  I  asked." 

"  I  thought  that  the  Soul  of  Wisdom  must  have  known," 
said  Piou-Lu,  triumphantly,  looking  as  if  he  believed 
firmly  in  the  knowledge  of  Wei-chaug-tze.  "  The  noble 
commands  of  Wei-chang-tze  shall  be  obeyed.  You  all 
know,"  said  he,  looking  round  upon  the  people,  "  that 
there  are  three  great  and  powerful  Dragons  inhabiting 
the  universe.  Lung,  or  the  Dragon  of  the  Sky ;  Li,  or 
the  Dragon  of  the  Sea;  and  Kiau,  or  the  Dragon  of 
the  Marshes.  All  these  Dragons  are  wise,  strong,  and 


456  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

terrible.  They  are  wondrously  formed,  and  can  take  any 
shape  that  pleases  them.  Well,  good  people,  a  great 
many  moons  ago,  in  the  season  of  spiked  grain,  I  was 
following  the  profession  of  a  barber  in  the  mean  and 
unmentionable  town  of  Siho,  when  one  morning,  as  I  was 
sitting  in  my  shop  waiting  for  customers,  I  heard  a  great 
noise  of  tam-tams,  and  a  princely  palanquin  stopped 
before  my  door.  I  hastened,  of  course  to  observe  the 
honorable  Rites  toward  this  new-comer,  but  before  I  could 
reach  the  street  a  Mandarin,  splendidly  attired,  descended 
from  the  palanquin.  The  ball  on  his  cap  was  of  a  stone 
and  color  that  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  three  feathers 
of  some  unknown  bird  hung  down  behind  his  head-dress. 
He  held  his  hand  to  his  jaw,  and  walked  into  my  house 
with  a  lordly  step.  I  was  greatly  confused,  for  I  knew 
not  what  rank  he  was  of,  and  felt  puzzled  how  to  address 
him.  He  put  an  end  to  my  embarrassment. 

"  '  I  am  in  the  house  of  Piou-Lu,  the  barber,'  he  said, 
in  a  haughty  .voice  that  sounded  like  the  roll  of  a  copper 
drum  amidst  the  hills. 

" '  That  disgraceful  and  ill-conditioned  person  stands 
before  you,'  I  replied,  bowing  as  low  as  I  could. 

"  '  It  is  well,'  said  he,  seating  himself  in  my  operating- 
chair,  while  two  of  his  attendants  fanned  him.  '  Piou- 
Lu,  I  have  the  toothache  ! ' 

" '  Does  your  lordship,'  said  I,  '  wish  that  I  should 
remove  your  noble  and  illustrious  pain  ? ' 

" '  You  must  draw  my  tooth,'  said  he.  '  Woe  to  you  if 
you  draw  the  wrong  one  ! ' 

"  *  It  is  too  much  honor,'  I  replied ;  '  but  I  will  make 
my  abominable  and  ill-conducted  instruments  entice  your 
lordship's  beautiful  tooth  out  of  your  high-born  jaw  with 
much  rapidity.' 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  457 

*'  So  I  got  my  big  pincers,  and  my  opinm-bottle,  and 
opened  the  strange  Mandarin's  mouth.  Ah  !  it  was  then 
that  my  low-born  and  despicable  heart  descended  into  my 
bowels.  I  should  have  dropped  my  pincers  from  sheer 
fright  if  they  had  not  caught  by  their  hooked  ends  in  my 
wide  sleeve.  The  Mandarin's  mouth  was  all  on  fire  inside. 
As  he  breathed,  the  flames  rolled  up  and  down  his  throat, 
like  the  flames  that  gather  on  the  Yellow  Grass  Plains  in 
the  season  of  Much  Heat.  His  palate  glowed  like  red- 
hot  copper,  and  his  tongue  was  like  a  brass  stewpan  that 
had  been  on  the  salt-fire  for  thirty  days.  But  it  was  his 
teeth  that  affrighted  me  most.  They  were  a  serpent's 
teeth.  They  were  long,  and  curved  inward,  and  seemed 
to  be  made  of  transparent  crystal,  in  the  centre  of  which 
small  tongues  of  orange-colored  fire  leaped  up  and  down 
out  of  some  cavity  in  the  gums. 

" '  Well,  dilatory  barber,'  said  the  Mandarin,  in  a  hor- 
rible tone,  while  I  stood  pale  and  trembling  before  him, 
'  why  don't  you  draw  my  tooth  ?  Hasten,  or  I  will  have 
you  sliced  lengthwise  and  fried  in  the  sun.' 

"  '  0,  ray  lord  ! '  said  I,  terrified  at  this  threat,  '  I  fear 
that  my  vicious  and  unendurable  pincers  are  not  suffi- 
ciently strong.' 

"  '  Slave  ! '  answered  he  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  '  if  you  do 
not  fulfil  my  desires,  you  will  not  see  another  moon  rise.' 

"  I  saw  that  I  should  be  killed  any  way,  so  I  might  as 
well  make  the  attempt.  I  made  a  dart  with  my  pincers 
at  the  first  tooth  that  came,  closed  them  firmly  on  the 
crystal  fang,  and  began  to  pull  with  all  my  strength. 
The  Mandarin  bellowed  like  an  ox  of  Thibet.  The  flames 
rolled  from  his  throat  in  such  volumes  that  I  thought 
they  would  singe  my  eyebrows.  His  two  attendants  and 
his  four  palanquin-bearers  put  their  arms  round  my  waist 


458  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

to  help  me  to  pull,  and  there  we  tugged  for  three  or  four 
minutes,  until  at  last  I  heard  a  report  as  loud  as  nine 
thousand  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  fire-crackers.  The 
attendants,  the  palanquin-bearers,  and  myself  all  fell  flat 
on  the  floor,  and  the  crystal  fang  glittered  between  the 
jaws  of  the  pincers. 

"  The  Mandarin  was  smiling  pleasantly  as  I  got  up 
from  the  floor.  'Piou-Lu,'  said  he,  'you  had  a  narrow 
escape.  You  have  removed  my  toothache,  but  had  you 
failed,  you  would  have  perished  miserably ;  for  I  am  the 
Dragon  Lung,  who  rules  the  sky  and  the  heavenly  bod- 
ies, and  I  am  as  powerful  as  I  am  wise.  .  Take  as  a 
reward  the  Dragon  Fang  which  you  drew  from  my  jaw. 
You  will  find  it  a  magical  charm  with  which  you  can 
work  miracles.  Honor  your  parents,  observe  the  Rites, 
and  live  in  peace.' 

"So  saying,  he  breathed  a  whole  cloud  of  fire  and 
smoke  from  his  throat,  that  filled  my  poor  and  despicable 
mansion.  The  light  dazzled  and  the  smoke  suffocated  me, 
and  when  I  recovered  my  sight  and  breath  the  Dragon 
Lung,  the  attendants,  the  palanquin,  and  the  four  bearers 
had  all  departed,  how  and  whither  I  knew  not.  Thus 
was  it,  elegant  and  refined  people  of  Tching-tou,  that  this 
small  and  evil-minded  person  who  stands  before  you  be- 
came possessed  of  the  wonderful  Dragon  Fang,  with  which 
he  can  work  miracles." 

This  story,  delivered  as  it  was  with  much  graceful  and 
dramatic  gesticulation,  and  a  volubility  that  seemed  al- 
most supernatural,  had  its  effect  upon  the  crowd,  and  a 
poor  little  tailor,  named  Hang-pou,  who  was  known  to  be 
always  in  debt,  was  heard  to  say  that  he  wished  he  had 
the  Dragon-Fang,  wherewith  to  work  miracles  with  his 
creditors.  But  the  Mandarins,  blue,  crystal,  and  gilt, 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  459 

smiled  contemptuously,  and  said  to  themselves,  "We 
who  are  learned  men  know  how  to  esteem  these  things." 

The  Mandarin  Wei-chang-tze,  however,  seemed  to  be  of 
an  inquiring  disposition,  and  evinced  a  desire  to  continue 
his  investigations. 

"Supremely  visited  conjurer,"  said  he  to  Piou-Lu, 
"  your  story  is  indeed  wonderful.  To  have  been  visited 
by  the  Dragon  Lung  must  have  been  truly  refreshing  and 
enchanting.  Though  not  in  the  least  doubting  your  mar- 
vellous relation,  I  am  sure  this  virtuous  assemblage  would 
like  to  see  some  proof  of  the  miraculous  power  of  your 
Dragon  Fang." 

The  crowd  gave  an  immediate  assent  to  this  sentiment 
by  pressing  closer  to  the  platform  on  which  Piou-Lu 
strutted,  and  exclaiming  with  one  voice,  "The  lofty 
Mandarin  says  wisely.  We  would  like  to  behold," 

Piou-Lu  did  not  seem  in  the  slightest  degree  disconcert- 
ed. His  narrow  bjack  eyes  glistened  like  the  dark  edges 
of  the  seeds  of  the  water-melon,  and  he  looked  haughtily 
around  him. 

"  Is  there  any  one  of  you  who  would  like  to  have  a 
miracle  performed,  and  of  what  nature  1 "  he  asked,  with 
a  triumphant  wave  of  his  arms. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  my  debts  paid,"  murmured  the 
little  tailor,  Hang-pou. 

"  0  Hang-pou,"  replied  the  conjurer,  "  this  unworthy 
personage  is  not  going  to  pay  your  debts.  Go  home  and 
sit  in  your  shop,  and  drink  no  more  rice-wine,  and  your 
debts  will  be  paid ;  for  labor  is  the  Dragon  Fang  that 
works  miracles  for  idle  tailors ! " 

There  was  a  laugh  through  the  crowd  at  this  sally, 
because  Hang-pou  was  well  known  to  be  fond  of  intoxicat- 
ing drinks,  and  spent  more  of  his  time  in  the  street  than 
on  his  shop-board. 


460  THE  DKAGON  FANG. 

"  Would  either  of  you  like  to  be  changed  into  a  camel  1 " 
continued  Piou-Lu.  "  Say  the  word,  afed  there  shall  not 
be  a  finer  beast  in  all  Thibet !  * 

No  one,  however,  seemed  to  be  particularly  anxious  to 
experience  this  transformation.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
it  was  warm  weather,  and  camels  bear  heavy  burdens. 

"  I  will  change  the  whole  honorable  assemblage  into 
turkey-buzzards,  if  it  only  agrees,"  continued  the  conjurer ; 
"  or  I  will  make  the  Lake  Tung  come  up  into  the  town 
in  the  shape  of  a  water-melon,  and  then  burst  and  over- 
flow everything." 

"  But  we  should  all  be  drowned  ! "  exclaimed  Hang-pou, 
who  was  cowardly  as  well  as  intemperate. 

"  That 's  true,"  said  Piou-Lu,  "  but  then  you  need  not 
fear  your  creditors,"  —  and  he  gave  such  a  dart  of  his  long 
arm  at  the  poor  little  tailor,  that  the  wretched  man 
thought  he  was  going  to  claw  him  up  and  change  him 
into  some  frightful  animal. 

"Well,  since  this  illustrious  assembly  will  not  have 
turkey-buzzards  or  camels,  this  weak-minded,  ill-shapen 
personage  must  work  a  miracle  on  himself,"  said  Piou-Lu, 
descending  from  his  platform  into  the  street,  and  bringing 
with  him  a  little  three-legged  stool  made  of  bamboo  rods. 

The  crowd  retreated  as  he  approached,  and  even  the 
solemn  Wei-chang-tze  seemed  rather  afraid  of  this  mirac- 
ulous conjurer.  Piou-Lu  placed  the  bamboo  stool  firmly 
on  the  ground,  and  then  mounted  upon  it. 

"Elegant  and  symmetrical  bamboo  stool,"  he  said,  lift- 
ing his  arms,  and  exhibiting  something  in  his  hand  that 
seemed  like  a  piece  of  polished  jade-stone,  —  "  elegant  and 
symmetrical  bamboo  stool,  the  justly  despised  conjurer, 
named  Pion-Lu,  entreats  that  you  will  immediately  grow 
tall,  in  the  name  of  the  Dragon  Lung ! " 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  461 

Truly  the  stool  began  to  grow,  in  the  presence  of  the 
astonished  crowd.  The  three  legs  of  bamboo  lengthened 
and  lengthened  with  great  rapidity,  bearing  Piou-Lu  high 
up  into  the  air.  As  he  ascended  he  bowed  gracefully  to 
the  open-mouthed  assembly. 

"  It  is  delightful ! "  he  cried ;  "  the  air  up  here  is  so 
fresh  !  I  smell  the  tea-winds  from  Fuh-kien.  I  can  see 
the  spot  where  the  heavens  and  the  earth  cease  to  run 
parallel.  I  hear  the  gongs  of  Pekin,  and  listen  to  the 
lowing  of  the  herds  in  Thibet.  Who  would  not  have  an 
elegant  bamboo  stool  that  knew  how  to  grow  1 " 

By  this  time  Piou-Lu  had  risen  to  an  enormous  height. 
The  legs  of  the  slender  tripod  on  which  he  was  mounted 
seemed  like  silkworm's  threads,  so  thin  were  they  com- 
pared with  their  length.  The  crowd  began  to  tremble 
for  Piou-Lu. 

"Will  he  never  stop?"  said  a  Mandarin  with  a  gilt 
ball,  named  Lin. 

"  0,  yes  ! "  shouted  Piou-Lu  from  the  dizzy  height  of  his 
bamboo  stool.  "  0,  yes !  this  ugly  little  person  will  imme- 
diately stop.  Elegant  stool,  the  poor  conjurer  entreats 
you  to  stop  growing  ;  but  he  also  begs  that  you  will  afford 
some  satisfaction  to  this  beautifying  assemblage  down 
below,  who  have  honored  you  with  their  inspection." 

The  bamboo  stool,  with  the  utmost  complaisance,  ceased 
to  lengthen  out  its  attenuated  limbs,  but  on  the  moment 
experienced  another  change  as  terrifying  to  the  crowd. 
The  three  legs  began  to  approach  each  other  rapidly,  and 
before  the  eye  could  very  well  follow  their  motions  had 
blended  mysteriously  and  inexplicably  into  one,  the  stool 
still  retaining  a  miraculous  equilibrium.  Immediately 
this  single  stem  began  to  thicken  most  marvellously,  and 
instead  of  the  dark  shining  skin  of  a  bamboo  stick,  it 


462  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

seemed  gradually  to  be  incased  in  overlapping  rings  of  a 
rough  bark.  Meanwhile  a  faint  rustling  noise  continued 
overhead,  and  when  the  crowd,  attracted  by  the  sound, 
looked  up,  instead  of  the  flat  disk  of  cane-work  on  which 
Piou-Lu  had  so  wondrously  ascended,  they  beheld  a 
cabbage-shaped  mass  of  green,  which  shot  forth  every 
moment  long,  pointed  satiny  leaves  of  the  tenderest  green, 
and  the  most  graceful  shape  imaginable.  But  where  was 
Piou-Lu  1  Some  fancied  that  in  the  yellow  crown  that 
topped  the  cabbage-shaped  bud  of  this  strange  tree  they 
could  see  the  tip  of  his  cap,  and  distinguish  his  black, 
roguish  eyes,  but  that  may  have  been  all  fancy  ;  and  they 
were  quickly  diverted  from  their  search  for  the  conjurer 
by  a  shower  of  red,  pulpy  fruits,  that  began  to  fall  with 
great  rapidity  from  the  miraculous  tree.  Of  course  there 
was  a  scramble,  in  which  the  Mandarins  themselves  did 
not  disdain  to  join;  and  the  crimson  fruits  —  the  like  of 
which  no  one  in  Tching-tou  had  ever  seen  before  —  proved 
delightfully  sweet  and  palatable  to  the  taste. 

"  That 's  right !  that 's  right !  perfectly  bred  and  very 
polite  people,"  cried  a  shrill  voice  while  they  were  all 
scrambling  for  the  crimson  fruits ;  "pick  fruit  while  it  is 
fresh,  and  tea  while  it  is  tender.  For  the  sun  wilts,  and 
the  chills  toughen,  and  the  bluest  plum  blooms  only  for  a 
day." 

Everybody  looked  up,  and  lo !  there  was  Piou-Lu,  as 
large  as  life,  strutting  upon  the  stage,  waving  a  large  green 
fan  in  his  hand.  While  the  crowd  was  yet  considering 
this  wonderful  reappearance  of  the  conjurer,  there  was 
heard  a  very  great  outcry  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  a 
tall  thin  man  in  a  coarse  blue  gown  came  running  up  at 
full  speed. 

"Where  are  my  plums,  sons  of  thieves'?"  he   cried, 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  463 

almost  breathless  with  haste.  "  Alas  !  alas !  I  am  com- 
pletely ruined.  My  wife  will  perish  miserably  for  want 
of  food,  and  my  sons  will  inherit  nothing  but  empty 
baskets  at  my  death  !  Where  are  my  plums  1 " 

"  Who  is  it  that  dares  to  address  the  virtuous  and 
well-disposed  people  of  Tching-tou  after  this  fashion?" 
demanded  the  Mandarin  Lin,  hi  a  haughty  voice,  as  he 
confronted  the  new-comer. 

The  poor  man,  seeing  the  gilt  ball,  became  immediately 
very  humble,  and  bowed  several  times  to  the  Mandarin. 

"  0,  my  lord ! "  said  he,  "  I  am  an  incapable  and  unde- 
serving plum-seller,  named  Liho.  I  was  just  now  sitting 
at  my  stall  in  a  neighboring  street  selling  five  cash  worth 
of  plums  to  a  customer,  when  suddenly  all  the  plums 
rose  out  of  my  baskets  as  if  they  had  the  wings  of  hawks, 
and  flew  through  the  air  over  the  tops  of  the  houses  in 
this  direction.  Thinking  myself  the  sport  of  demons,  I 
ran  after  them,  hoping  to  catch  them,  and  —  Ah  !  there 
are  my  plums,"  he  cried,  suddenly  interrupting  himself, 
and  making  a  dart  at  some  of  the  crimson  fruits  that  the 
tailor  Hang  held  in  his  hand,  intending  to  carry  them 
home  to  his  wife. 

"  These  your  plums ! "  screamed  Hang,  defending  his 
treasure  vigorously.  "Mole  that  you  are,  did  you  ever 
see  scarlet  plums  1 " 

"This  man  is  stricken  by  Heaven,"  said  Piou-Lu, 
gravely.  "  He  is  a  fool  who  hides  his  plums  and  then 
thinks  that  they  fly.  away.  Let  some  one  shake  his 
gown." 

A  porcelain-cobbler  who  stood  near  the  fruiterer  imme- 
diately seized  the  long  blue  robe  and  gave  it  a  lusty  pull, 
when,  to  the  wonder  of  everybody,  thousands  of  the 
most  beautiful  plums  fell  out,  as  from  a  tree  shaken  by 


464  THE  DEAGON  FANG. 

the  winds  of  autumn.  At  this  moment  a  great  gust  of 
•wind  arose  in  the  street,  and  a  pillar  of  dust  mounted  up 
to  the  very  top  of  the  strange  tree,  that  still  stood  waving 
its  long  satiny  leaves  languidly  above  the  house-tops. 
For  an  instant  every  one  was  blinded,  and  when  the  dust 
had  subsided  so  as  to  permit  the  people  to  use  their  eyes 
again  the  wonderful  tree  had  completely  vanished,  and 
all  that  could  be  seen  was  a  little  bamboo  stool  flying 
along  the  road,  where  it  was  blown  by  the  storm.  The 
poor  fruiterer,  Liho,  stood  aghast,  looking  at  the  plums, 
in  which  he  stood  knee-deep. 

The  Mandarin,  addressing  him,  said  sternly,  "Let  us 
hear  no  more  such  folly  from  Liho,  otherwise  he  will  get 
twenty  strokes  of  the  stick." 

"  Gather  your  plums,  Liho,"  said  Piou-Lu  kindly,  "  and 
think  this  one  of  your  fortunate  days;  for  he  who  runs 
after  his  losses  with  open  mouth  does  not  always  overtake 
them." 

And  as  the  conjurer  descended  from  his  platform  it  did 
not  escape  the  sharp  eyes  of  the  little  tailor  Hang  that 
Piou-Lu  exchanged  a  mysterious  signal  with  the  Mandarin 
Wei-ehang-tze. 


THE  CHAPTER  OF  THE  SHADOW  OP  THE  DUCK. 

IT  was  close  on  nightfall  when  Piou-Lu  stopped  before 
Wei-chaug-tze's  house.  The  lanterns  were  already  lit, 
and  the  porter  dozed  in  a  bamboo  chair  so  spundly,  that 
Piou-Lu  entered  the  porch  and  passed  the  screen  without 
awaking  him.  The  inner  room  was  dimly  lighted  by 
some  horn  lanterns  elegantly  painted  with  hunting  scenes ; 
but  despite  the  obscurity  the  conjurer  could  discover 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  465 

Wei-chang-tze  seated  at  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment 
on  an  inclined  couch  covered  with  blue  and  yellow  satin. 
Along  the  corridor  that  led  to  the  women's  apartments 
the  shadows  lay  thick ;  but  Piou-Lu  fancied  he  could  hear 
the  pattering  of  little  feet  upon  the  matted  floor,  and  see 
the  twinkle  of  curious  eyes  illuminating  the  solemn  dark- 
ness. Yet,  after  all,  he  may  have  been  mistaken,  for  the 
corridor  opened  on  a  garden  wealthy  in  the  rarest  flowers, 
and  he  may  have  conceived  the  silver  dripping  of  the 
fountain  to  be  the  pattering  of  dainty  feet,  and  have  mis- 
taken the  moonlight  shining  on  the  moist  leaves  of  the 
lotus  for  the  sparkle  of  women's  eyes. 

"Has  Piou-Lu  arrived  in  my  dwelling?"  asked  "Wei- 
chang-tze  from  the  dim  corner  in  which  he  lay. 

"  That  ignoble  and  wrath-deserving  personage  bows  his 
head  before  you,"  answered  Piou-Lu,  advancing  and  salut- 
ing the  Mandarin  in  accordance  with  the  laws  of  the 
Book  of  Rites. 

"  I  hope  that  you  performed  your  journey  hither  in 
great  safety  and  peace  of  mind,"  said  Wei-chang-tze, 
gracefully  motioning  to  the  conjurer  to  seat  himself  on  a 
small  blue  sofa  that  stood  at  a  little  distance. 

"  When  so  mean  an  individual  as  Piou-Lu  is  honored 
by  the  request  of  the  noble  Wei-chang-tze,  good  fortune 
must  attend  him.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  *? "  replied 
Piou-Lu,  seating  himself  not  on  the  small  blue  sofa,  but 
on  the  satin  one  which  was  partly  occupied  by  the  Man- 
darin himself. 

"  Piou-Lu  did  not  send  in  his  name,  as  the  Rites  direct," 
said  Wei-chang-tze,  looking  rather  disgusted  by  this  im- 
pertinent freedom  on  the  part  of  the  conjurer. 

"The  elegant  porter  that  adorns  the  noble  porch  of 
Wei-chang-tze  was  fast  asleep,"  answered  Piou-Lu,  "and 

30 


466  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

Piou-Lu  knew  that  the  great  Mandarin  expected  him  with 
impatience." 

"Yes,"  said  Wei-chang-tze ;  "I  am  oppressed  by  a 
thousand  demons ;  devils  sleep  in  my  hair,  and  my  ears 
are  overflowing  with  evil  spirit ;  I  cannot  rest  at  night, 
and  feel  no  pleasure  in  the  day.  Therefore  was  it  that  I 
wished  to  see  you,  in  hopes  that  you  would,  by  amusing 
the  demon  that  inhabits  my  stomach,  induce  him  to  de- 
part." 

"  I  will  endeavor  to  delight  the  respectable  demon  who 
lodges  in  your  stomach  with  my  unworthy  conjurations," 
replied  Piou-Lu.  "  But  first  I  must  go  into  the  garden 
to  gather  flowers." 

"Go,"  said  Wei-chang-tze.  "The  moon  shines,  and 
you  will  see  there  very  many  rare  and  beautiful  plants 
that  are  beloved  by  my  daughter  Wu." 

"The  moonlight  itself  cannot  shine  brighter  on  the 
lilies  than  the  glances  of  your  lordship's  daughter,"  said 
the  conjurer,  bowing  and  proceeding  to  the  garden. 

Ah  !  what  a  garden  it  was  that  Piou-Lu  now  entered  ! 
The  walls  that  surrounded  it  were  lofty,  and  built  of  a 
rosy  stone  brought  from  the  mountains  of  Mantchouria. 
This  wall,  on  whose  inner  face  flowery  designs  and  tri- 
umphal processions  were  sculptured  at  regular  intervals, 
sustained  the  long  and  richly  laden  shoots  of  the  white 
magnolia,  which  spread  its  large  snowy  chalices  in  myr- 
iads over  the  surface.  Tamarisks  and  palms  sprang  up 
in  various  parts  of  the  grounds,  like  dark  columns  support- 
ing the  silvery  sky  ;  while  the  tender  and  mournful  willow 
drooped  its  delicate  limbs  over  numberless  fish-ponds, 
whose  waters  seemed  to  repose  peacefully  in  the  bosom  of 
the  emerald  turf.  The  air  was  distracted  with  innumer- 
able perfumes,  each  more  fragrant  than  the  other.  The 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  467 

blue  convolvulus,  the  crimson  ipomea,  the  prodigal  azaleas, 
the- spotted  tiger-lilies,  the  timid  and  half-hidden  jasmine, 
all  poured  forth,  during  the  day  and  night,  streams  of 
perfume  from  the  inexhaustible  fountains  of  their  chal- 
ices. The  heavy  odors  of  the  tube-rose  floated  languidly 
through  the  leaves,  as  a  richly-plumaged  bird  would  float 
through  summer  air,  borne  down  by  his  own  splendor. 
The  blue  lotus  slept  on  the  smooth  waves  of  the  fish- 
ponds in  sublime  repose.  There  seemed  an  odor  of  en- 
chantment over  the  entire  place.  The  flowers  whispered 
their  secrets  in  the  perfumed  silence ;  the  inmost  heart 
of  every  blossom  was  unclosed  at  that  mystic  hour ;  all 
the  magic  and  mystery  of  plants  floated  abroad,  and  the 
garden  seemed  filled  with  the  breath  of  a  thousand  spells. 
But  amidst  the  lilies  and  lotuses,  amidst  the  scented  roses 
and  the  drooping  convolvuli,  there  moved  a  flower  fairer 
than  all. 

"  I  am  here,"  whispered  a  low  voice,  and  a  dusky  figure 
came  gliding  towardPiou-Lu,as  he  stood  by  the  fountain. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  conjurer,  in  a  tender  tone,  far  differ- 
ent from  the  shrill  one  in  which  he  addressed  the  crowd 
opposite  the  Hotel  of  the  Thirty-two  Virtues.  "  The  gar- 
den is  now  complete.  Wu,  the  Eose  of  Completed  Beauty, 
has  blossomed  on  the  night." 

"  Let  Piou-Lu  shelter  her  under  his  mantle  from  the 
cold  winds  of  evening,  and  bear  her  company  for  a  little 
while,  for  she  has  grown  up  under  a  lonely  wall,"  said 
Wu,  laying  her  little  hand  gently  on  the  conjurer's  arm, 
and  nestling  up  to  his  side  as  a  bird  nestles  into  the  fallen 
leaves  warmed  by  the  sun. 

"  She  can  lie  there  but  a  little  while,"  answered  Piou- 
Lu,  folding  the  Mandarin's  daughter  in  a  passionate  em- 
brace, "  for  Wei-chang-tze  awaits  the  coming  of  Piou-Lu 


468  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

impatiently,  in  order  to  have  a  conjuration  with  a  devil 
that  inhabits  his  stomach." 

"  Alas  ! '  said  Wu,  sadly,  "  why  do  you  not  seek  some 
other  and  more  distinguished  employment  than  that  of  a 
conjurer1?  Why  do  you  not  seek  distinction  in  the  Palace 
of  Literary  Composition,  and  obtain  a  style  1  Then  we 
need  not  meet  in  secret,  and  you  might  without  fear 
demand  my  hand  from  my  father." 

Piou-Lu  smiled,  almost  scornfully.  He  seemed  to  gain 
an  inch  in  stature,  and  looked  around  him  with  an  air 
of  command. 

"The  marble  from  which  the  statue  is  to  be  carved 
must  lie  in  the  quarry  until  the  workman  finds  it,"  he 
answered,  "and  the  hour  of  my  destiny  has  not  yet 
arrived." 

"  Well,  we  must  wait,  I  suppose,"  said  Wu,  with  a  sigh. 
"Meantime,  Piou-Lu,  I  love  you." 

"  The  hour  will  come  sooner  than  you  think,"  said 
Piou-Lu,  returning  her  caress ;  "  and  now  go,  for  the 
Mandarin  waits." 

Wu  glided  away  through  the  gloom  to  her  own  apart- 
ment, while  the  conjurer  passed  rapidly  through  the  garden 
and  gathered  the  blossoms  of  certain  flowers  as  he  went. 
He  seemed  to  linger  with  a  strange  delight  over  the  buds 
bathed  in  the  moonlight  and  the  dew ;  their  perfume 
ascended  into  his  nostrils  like  incense,  and  he  breathed  it 
with  a  voluptuous  pleasure. 

"  Now  let  the  demon  tremble  in  the  noble  stomach  of 
Wei-chang-tze,"  said  Piou-Lu,  as  he  re-entered  the  hall  of 
reception  laden  with  flowers.  "  This  ill-favored  personage 
will  make  such  conjurations  as  shall  delight  the  soul  of 
the  elegant  and  well-born  Mandarin,  and  cause  his  illus- 
trious persecutor  to  fly  terrified." 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  469 

Piou-Lu  then  stripped  off  the  petals  from  many  of  the 
flowers,  and  gathered  them  in  a  heap  on  the  floor.  The 
mass  of  leaves  was  indeed  variegated.  The  red  of  the 
quamoclit,  the  blue  of  the  convolvulus,  the  tender  pink  of 
the  camellia,  the  waxen  white  of  the  magnolia,  were  all 
mingled  together  like  the  thousand  hues  in  the  Scarfs  of 
Felicity.  Having  built  this  confused  mass  t>f  petals  in 
the  shape  of  a  pyramid,  Piou-Lu  unwound  a  scarf  from 
his  waist  and  flung  it  over  the  heap.  He  then  drew  the 
piece  of  jade-stone  from  his  pocket,  and  said,  — 

"  This  personage  of  outrageous  presence  desires  that 
what  will  be  may  be  shown  to  the  lofty  Mandarin,  Wei- 
chang-tze." 

As  he  pronounced  these  words,  he  twitched  the  scarf 
away  with  a  rapid  jerk,  and  lo !  the  flower-leaves  were 
gone,  and  in  their  place  stood  a  beautiful  mandarin  duck, 
in  whose  gorgeous  plumage  one  might  trace  the  brilliant 
hues  of  the  flowers.  Piou-Lu  now  approached  the  duck, 
caught  it  up  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  drew 
a  sharp  knife  from  his  girdle  and  severed  the  bird's  head 
from  its  body  at  a  single  stroke.  To  the  great  astonish- 
ment of  Wei-chang-tze,  the  body  and  dismembered  head 
of  the  bird  vanished  the  moment  the  knife  had  passed 
through  the  neck ;  but  at  the  same  instant  a  duck,  re- 
sembling it  in  every  respect,  escaped  from  the  conjurer's 
hands  and  flew  across  the  room.  When  I  say  that  this 
duck  resembled  the  other  in  every  respect,  I  mean  only 
in  shape,  size,  and  colors.  For  the  rest,  it  was  no  bodily 
duck.  It  was  impalpable  and  transparent,  and  even  when 
it  flew  it  made  no  noise  with  its  wings. 

"  This  is  indeed  wonderful ! "  said  Wei-chang-tze.  "  Let 
the  marvellous  conjurer  explain." 

"  The  duck  formed  out  of  flowers  was  a  duck  pure  in 


470  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

body  and  in  spirit,  most  lofty  Mandarin,"  said  Piou-Lu, 
"and  when  it  died  under- the  knife,  I  ordered  its  soul  to 
pass  into  its  shadow,  which  can  never  be  killed.  Hence 
the  shadow  of  the  duck  has  all  the  colors  as  well  as  the 
intelligence  of  the  real  duck  that  gave  it  birth." 

"  And  to  what  end  has  the  very  wise  Piou-Lu  created 
this  beautiful  duck-shadow  1 "  asked  the  Mandarin. 

"The  cultivated  Wei-chang-tze  shall  immediately  be- 
hold," answered  the  conjurer,  drawing  from  his  wide 
sleeve  a  piece  of  rock-salt  and  flinging  it  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  room.  He  had  hardly  done  this  when  a  ter- 
rific sound,  between  a  bark  and  a  howl,  issued  from  the 
dim  corner  into  which  he  had  cast  the  rock-salt,  and  im- 
mediately a  large  gray  wolf  issued  wonderfully  from  out 
of  the  twilight,  and  rushed  with  savage  fangs  upon  the 
shadow  of  the  beautiful  duck. 

"  Why,  it  is  a  wolf  from  the  forests  of  Mantchouria !  " 
exclaimed  Wei-chang-tze,  rather  alarmed  at  this  frightful 
apparition.  "  This  is  no  shadow,  but  a  living  and  blood- 
thirsty beast." 

"  Let  my  lord  observe  and  have  no  fear,"  said  Piou-Lu, 
tranquilly. 

The  wolf  seemed  rather  confounded  when,  on  making  a 
snap  at  the  beautiful  duck,  his  sharp  fangs  met  no  resist- 
ance, while  the  bird  flew  with  wonderful  venom  straight 
at  his  fiery  eyes.  He  growled,  and  snapped,  and  tore 
with  his  claws  at  the  agile  shadow  that  fluttered  around 
and  over  him,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  As  well  might  the 
hound  leap  at  the  reflection  of  the  deer  in  the  pool  where 
he  drinks.  The  shadow  of  the  beautiful  duck  seemed  all 
the  while  to  possess  some  strange,  deadly  influence  over 
the  savage  wolf.  His  growls  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
and  his  red  and  flaming  eyes  seemed  to  drop  blood.  His 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  471 

limbs  quivered  all  over,  and  the  rough  hairs  of  his  coat 
stood  ou  end  with  terror  and  pain,  —  the  shadow  of  the 
beautiful  duck  never  ceasing  all  the  time  to  fly  straight 
at  his  eyes. 

"  The  wolf  is  dying  !  "  exclaimed  Wei-chang-tze. 

"  He  will  die,  —  die  like  a  dog,"  said  Piou-Lu,  in  a  tone 
of  savage  triumph. 

And  presently,  as  he  predicted,  the  wolf  gav§  two  or 
three  faint  howls,  turned  himself  round  in  a  circle  as  if 
making  a  bed  to  sleep  on,  and  then  laid  down  and  died. 
The  shadow  of  the  beautiful  duck  seemed  now  to  be 
radiant  with  glory.  It  shook  its  bright  wings,  that  were 
lovely  and  transparent  as  a  rainbow,  and,  mounting  on 
the  dead  body  of  the  wolf,  sat  in  majesty  upon  his  grim 
and  shaggy  throne. 

"  And  what  means  this  strange  exhibition,  learned  and 
wise  conjurer1?"  asked  Wei-chang-tze,  with  a  sorely  trou- 
bled air. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Piou-Lu,  suddenly  dropping  his 
respectful  and  ceremonious  language,  and  lifting  his  hand 
with  an  air  of  supreme  power.  "The  mandarin  duck, 
elegant,  faithful,  and  courageous,  is  an  emblem  of  the 
dynasty  of  Ming,  that  true  Chinese  race  that  ruled  so 
splendidly  in  this  land  before  the  invaders  usurped  the 
throne.  The  cowardly  and  savage  wolf  is  a  symbol  of  the 
Mantchou  Tartar  robbers  who  slew  our  liberties,  shaved 
our  heads,  and  enchained  our  people.  The  time  has  now 
arrived  when  the  duck  has  recovered  its  splendor  and  its 
courage,  and  is  going  to  kill  the  wolf ;  for  the  wolf  can- 
not bite  it,  as  it  works  like  a  shadow  in  the  twilight  and 
mystery  of  secret  association.  This  you  know,  Wei- 
chang-tze,  as  well  as  I." 

"  I  have  indeed  heard  of  a  rebel  Chinese  named  Tien-te, 


472  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

who  has  raised  a  flame  in  our  peaceful  land,  and  who, 
proclaiming  himself  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  dynasty  of 
Ming,  seeks  to  dethrone  our  wise  and  heavenly  sovereign, 
Hien-foung." 

"  Lie  not  to  me,  Wei-chang-tze,  for  I  know  your  inmost 
thoughts.  Chinese  as  you  are,  I  know  that  you  hate  the 
Tartar  in  your  heart,  but  you  are  afraid  to  say  so  for  fear 
of  losing«yonr  head." 

The  Mandarin  was  so  stupefied  at  this  audacious  address 
that  he  could  not  reply,  while  the  conjurer  continued  : 
"  I  come  to  make  you  an  offer.  Join  the  forces  of  the 
heaven-descended  Emperor  Tien-te.  Join  with  him  in 
expelling  this  tyrannical  Tartar  race  from  the  Central 
Kingdom,  and  driving  them  back  again  to  their  cold  hills 
and  barren  deserts.  Fly  with  me  to  the  Imperial  camp, 
and  bring  with  you  your  daughter  Wu,  the  Golden  Heart 
of  the  Lily,  and  I  promise  you  the  command  of  one  third 
of  the  Imperial  forces,  and  the  Presidency  of  the  College 
of  Ceremonies." 

"  And  who  are  you,  who  dare  to  ask  of  Wei-chang-tze 
to  bestow  on  you  his  nobly-born  daughter?"  said  Wei- 
chang-tze,  starting  in  a  rage  from  his  couch. 

"  I ! "  replied  Piou-Lu,  shaking  his  conjurer's  gown 
from  his  shoulders  and  displaying  a  splendid  garment  of 
yellow  satin,  on  the  breast  of  which  was  emblazoned  the 
Imperial  Dragon,  —  "  Lam  your  Emperor,  Tien-te  1" 

"  Ha !  "  screamed  a  shrill  voice  behind  him  at  this  mo- 
ment, "here  he  is.  The  elegant  and  noble  rebel  for 
whose  head  our  worthy  Emperor  has  offered  a  reward  of 
ten  thousand  silver  tales.  Here  he  is.  Catch  !  beautiful 
and  noble  Mandarins,  catch  him !  and  I  will  pay  my 
creditors  with  the  head-money." 

Piou-Lu  turned,  and  beheld  the  little  tailor  Hang-pou, 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  473 

at  whose  back  were  a  whole  file  of  soldiers  and  a  number 
of  Mandarins.  Wei-chang-tze  shuddered,  for  in  this  com- 
promise of  his  character  he  knew  that  his  death  was 
written  if  he  fell  into  the  Imperial  hands. 


"STATELY  and  temperate  tailor,"  said  Piou-Lu,  calmly, 
"  why  do  you  wish  to  arrest  me  1 " 

"  Ho  !  because  I  will  get  a  reward,  and  I  want  to  pay 
my  debts,"  said  Hang-pou,  grinning  spitefully. 

"A  reward  for  me,  the  miserable  and  marrowless  con- 
jurer, Piou-Lu  !  0,  elegant  cutter  of  summer  gowns,  your 
well-educated  brains  are  not  at  home  ! " 

"  0,  we  know  you  well  enough,  mighty  conjurer. 
You  are  none  other  than  the  contumacious  rebel,  Tien-te, 
who  dares  to  claim  the  throne  held  by  the  wise  and  mer- 
ciful Hien  Foung ;  and  we  will  bear  you  to  the  court  of 
Pekin  in  chains,  so  that  you  may  wither  in  the  light 
of  his  terrible  eyes." 

"You  think  you  will  get  a  reward  of  ten  thousand 
silver  tales  for  my  head  1 "  said  Piou-Lu. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  little  tailor,  rubbing  his  hands 
with  glee,  —  "  certainly.  His  Unmatched  and  Isolated 
Majesty  has  promised  it,  and  the  Brother  of  the  Sun 
never  lies." 

"  Listen,  inventive  closer  of  symmetrical  seams  !  Lis- 
ten, and  I  will  tell  you  what  will  become  of  your  ten  thou- 
sand silver  tales.  There  is  a  long  avenue  leading  to  the 
Imperial  treasury,  and  at  every  second  step  is  an  open 
hand.  When  the  ten  thousand  tales  are  poured  out,  the 
first  hand  grasps  a  half,  the  second  hand  an  eighth  of  the 


474  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

remaining  half,  the  third  hand  grasps  a  fourth  of  the  rest, 
and  when  the  money-bags  get  down  a  little  lower,  all  the 
hands  grasp  together;  so  that  when  the  bags  reach 
the  little  tailor  Hang-pou,  who  stands  stamping  his  feet 
very  far  down  indeed,  they  are  entirely  empty ;  for  Tartar 
robbers  surround  the  throne,  and  a  Tartar  usurper  sits 
upon  it,  and  the  great  Chinese  nation  toils  in  its  rice-fields 
to  gild  their  palaces,  and  fill  their  seraglios,  and  for  all 
they  give  get  neither  justice  nor  mercy.  But  I,  Tien-te, 
the  Heavenly  Emperor  of  this  Central  Land,  will  ordain 
it  otherwise,  and  hurl  the  false  Dragon  from  his  throne ; 
for  it  is  written  in  the  Book  of  Prognostics,  a  copy  of 
which  was  brought  to  me  on  the  wings  of  a  yellow  ser- 
pent, that  the  dynasty  of  Han  shall  rule  once  more,  and 
the  Tartar  wolves  perish  miserably  out  of  the  Land  of 
Flowers." 

"  This  is  treason  against  the  Light  of  the  Universe,  our 
most  gracious  Emperor,"  said  the  Mandarin  Lin.  "  You 
shall  have  seventy  times  seven  pounds  of  cold  iron  put 
upon  your  neck  for  these  blasphemies,  and  I  will  prom- 
ise you  that  many  bamboo  splinters  shall  be  driven  up 
under  your  rebellious  nails." 

"  Let  our  ears  be  no  longer  filled  with  these  atrocious 
utterances  !  "  cried  Hang-pou.  "  0  brave  and  splendid 
Mandarins,  order  your  terrifying  tigers  to  arrest  this  de- 
praved rebel,  in  order  that  we  may  hasten  with  him  to 
Pekin." 

"Before  you  throw  the  chains  of  sorrow  around  my 
neck,  0  tailor  of  celestial  inspirations,"  said  Piou-Lu; 
with  calm  mockery,  —  "  before  the  terrible  weight  of  your 
just  hand  falls  upon  me,  I  pray  you,  if  you  would  oblige 
me,  to  look  at  that  duck."  So  saying,  Piou-Lu  pointed 
to  where  the  shadow  of  the  duck  was  sitting  on  the  body 
of  the  wolf. 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  475 

"  0,  what  a  beautiful  duck ! "  cried  Hang-pou,  with 
glistening  eyes,  and  clapping  his  hands.  "  Let  us  try 
and  catch  him  !  " 

"It  is  indeed  a  majestic  duck,"  said  Mandarin  Lin, 
gravely  stroking  his  mustache.  "  I  am  favorable  to  his 

capture." 

"You  will  wait  until  we  catch  the  duck,  illustrious 
rebel ! "  said  Hang-pou  to  Piou-Lu,  very  innocently,  never 
turning  his  eyes  from  the  duck,  to  which  they  seemed  to 
be  glued  by  some  singular  spell  of  attraction. 

"  I  will  talk  with  the  Mandarin  Wei-chang-tze  while  you 
put  your  noble  manoeuvres  into  motion,"  answered  Piou-Lu. 

"Now  let  us  steal  upon  the  duck,"  said  Hang-pou. 
"  Handsomely-formed  duck,  we  entreat  of  you  to  remain 
as  quiet  as  possible,  in  order  that  we  may  grasp  you  in 

our  hands." 

Then,  as  if  actuated  by  a  single  impulse,  the  entire 
crowd,  with  the  exception  of  Wei-chang-tze  and  Piou-Lu, 
moved  toward  the  duck.  The  Mandarins  stepped  on 
tiptoe,  with  bent  bodies,  and  little  black  eyes  glistening 
with  eagerness ;  Hang-pou  crawled  on  his  belly  like  a 
serpent ;  and  the  soldiers,  casting  aside  their  bows  and 
shields,  crept,  with  their  hands  upon  their  sides,  toward 
the  beautiful  birch  The  duck  remained  perfectly  quiet, 
its  variegated  wings  shining  like  painted  tale,  and  its 
neck  lustrous  as  the  court  robe  of  a  first-class  Mandarin. 
The  crowd  scarcely  breathed,  so  intense  was  their  .eager- 
ness to  capture  the  duck  ;  and  they  moved  slowly  forward, 
gradually  surrounding  it. 

Hang-pou  was  the  first  to  make  a  clutch  at  the  bird, 
but  he  was  very  much  astonished  to  find  his  hand  closing 
on  empty  air,  while  the  duck  remained  seated  on  the 
wolf,  as  still  as  a  picture. 


476  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

"  Miserable  tailor  ! "  cried  Mandarin  Lin,  "  your  hand 
is  a  sieve,  with  meshes  wide  enough  to  strain  elephants. 
How  can  you  catch  the  beautiful  duck1?  Behold  me!" 
and  Mandarin  Lin  made  a  rapid  and  well-calculated  dive 
at  the  duck.  To  the  wonderment  of  every  one  except 
Piou-Lu  and  Wei-chang-tze,  the  duck  seemed  to  ooze 
through  his  fingers,  and,  escaping,  flew  away  to  the  other 
end  of  the  room. 

"  If  my  hand  is  a  sieve,"  said  Hang-pou,  "  it  is  evident 
that  the  noble  Mandarin's  hand  is  not  a  wall  of  beaten 
copper,  for  it  lets  ducks  fly  through  with  wonderful  ease." 

"It  is  a  depraved  and  abominable  duck,  of  criminal 
parentage,"  said  Mandarin  Lin,  in  a  terrible  rage;  "and 
I  vow,  by  the  whiskers  of  the  Dragon,  that  I  will  catch 
it  and  burn  it  on  a  spit." 

"  0,  yes !  "  cried  the  entire  crowd,  —  Mandarins,  soldiers, 
and  the  little  tailor,  —  all  now  attracted  to  the  chase  of 
the  duck  by  a  power  that  they  could  no  longer  resist. 
"  0,  yes  !  we  will  most  assuredly  capture  this  little  duck, 
and,  depriving  him  of  his  feathers,  punish  him  on  a  spit 
that  is  exceedingly  hot." 

So  the  chase  commenced.  Here  and  there,  from  one 
corner  to  the  other,  up  the  walls,  on  the  altar  of  the 
household  gods,  —  in  short,  in  every  possible  portion  of  the 
large  room,  did  the  Mandarins,  the  little  tailor,  and  the 
soldiers  pursue  the  shadow  of  the  beautiful  duck.  Never 
was  seen  such  a  duck.  It  seemed  to  be  in  twenty  places 
at  a  time.  One  moment  Mandarin  Lin  would  throw  him- 
self bodily  on  the  bird,  in  hopes  of  crushing  it,  and  would 
call  out  triumphantly  that  now  indeed  he  had  the  duck ; 
but  the  words  would  be  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  when  a 
loud  shout  from  the  rest  of  the  party  would  disabuse  his 
mind,  and,  turning,  he  would  behold  the  duck  marching 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  477 

proudly  down  the  centre  of  the  floor.  Another  time  a 
soldier  would  declare  that  he  had  the  duck  in  his  breeches 
pocket;  but  while  his  neighbors  were  carefully  probing 
that  recess  the  duck  would  be  seen  calmly  emerging  from 
his  right-hand  sleeve.  One  time  Hang-Pou  sat  down 
suddenly  on  the  mouth  of  a  large  china  jar,  and  resolutely 
refused  to  stir,  declaring  that  he  had  seen  the  duck  enter 
the  jar,  and  that  he  was  determined  to  sit  upon  the  mouth 
until  the  demon  of  a  duck  was  starved  to  death.  But 
even  while  uttering  his  heroic  determination,  his  mouth 
was  seen  to  open  very  wide,  and,  to  the  astonishment  of 
all,  the  duck  flew  out.  In  an  instant  the  whole  crowd 
was  after  him  again ;  Mandarin  Hy-le  tumbled  over 
Mandarin  Ching-tze,  and  Mandarin  Lin  nearly  drove  his 
head  through  Hang-pou's  stomach.  The  unhappy  wretches 
began  now  to  perspire  and  grow  faint  with  fatigue,  but 
the  longer  the  chase  went  on  the  hotter  it  grew.  There 
was  no  rest  for  any  of  them.  From  corner  to  corner, 
from  side  to  side,  —  now  in  one  direction,  now  in  another, — 
no  matter  whither  the  duck  flew,  they  were  compelled  to 
follow.  Their  faces  streamed,  and  their  legs  seemed  ready 
to  sink  under  them.  Their  eyeballs  were  ready  to  start 
out  of  their  heads,  and  they  had  the  air  of  government 
couriers  who  had  travelled  five  hundred  li  in  eleven  days. 
They  were  nearly  dead. 

"  Those  men  will  surely  perish,  illustrious  claimant  of 
the  throne,"  said  Wei-chang-tze,  gazing  with  astonishment 
at  this  mad  chase. 

"  Let  them  perish  !  "  said  the  conjurer ;  "  so  will  perish 
all  the  enemies  of  the  Celestial  sovereign,  Tie"n-te\  Wei- 
chang-tze,  once  more,  do  you  accept  my  offer1?  If  you 
remain  here,  you  will  be  sent  to  Pekin  in  chains ;  if  you 
come  with  me,  I  will  gird  your  waist  with  the  scarf  of 


478  THE  DRAGON  FANG. 

Perpetual  Delight.  We  want  wise  men  like  you  to  guide 
our  armies,  and  — " 

"And  the  illustrious  Tien-te  loves  the  Mandarin's 
daughter,"  said  Wei-chang-tze,  roguishly  finishing  the 
sentence.  "  Light  of  the  Universe  and  Son  of  Heaven, 
Wei-chang-tze  is  your  slave  ! " 

Piou-Lu  —  for  I  still  call  him  by  his  conjurer's  name  — 
gave  a  low  whistle,  and,  obedient  to  the  summons,  Wu's 
delicate  shape  came  gliding  from  the  corridor  toward  her 
lover,  with  the  dainty  step  of  a  young  fawn  going  to  the 
fountain. 

"  Wu,"  said  Piou-Lu,  "  the  marble  is  carved,  and  the 
hour  is  come." 

"  My  father,  then,  has  consented  1 "  said  Wu,  looking 
timidly  at  her  father. 

"  When  the  Emperor  of  the  Central  Land  condescends 
to  woo,  what  father  dare  refuse  1 "  said  Wei-chang-tze. 

"  Emperor ! "  said  Wu,  opening  her  black  eyes  with 
wonder.  "  My  Piou-lu  an  Emperor  !  " 

"  I  am  indeed  the  son  of  the  Dragon,"  said  Piou-Lu, 
folding  her  to  his  breast,  "and  you  shall  sit  upon  a 
throne  of  ivory  and  gold." 

"  And  I  thought  you  were  only  a  conjurer  !  "  murmured 
Wu,  hiding  her  head  in  his  yellow  gown. 

"  But  how ,  are  we  to  leave  this  place  1 "  asked  Wei- 
chang-tze,  looking  alarmed.  "  The  guard  will  seize  us  if 
they  get  knowledge  of  your  presence." 

"  We  shall  be  at  my  castle  in  the  mountains  of  Tse- 
Hing,  near  the  Kouei-Lin,  in  less  than  a  minute,"  an- 
swered Piou-Lu ;  "  for  to  the  possessor  of  the  Dragon  Fang 
all  things  are  possible." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  .ground  began  to  slide  from  under 
their  feet  with  wonderful  rapidity,  leaving  them  motion- 


THE  DRAGON  FANG.  479 

less  and  upright.  Houses,  walls,  gardens,  fields,  all 
passed  by  them  with  the  swiftness  of  a  dream,  until,  in 
a  few  seconds,  they  found  themselves  in  the  mountain 
castle  of  Tien-te,  where  they  were  welcomed  with  a 
splendid  hospitality.  Wu  became  the  favorite  wife  of 
the  adventurous  Emperor,  and  Wei-chang-tze  one  of  his 
most  famous  generals. 

The  day  after  these  events  some  Tartar  soldiers  en- 
tered Wei-chang-tze's  house  to  search  for  the  Mandarin, 
when,  in  the  reception-hall,  they  were  confounded  at 
finding  a  number  of  men  lying  dead  upon  the  floor,  while 
in  the  midst  sat  a  beautiful  duck,  that  immediately  on 
their  entrance  flew  out  through  a  window,  and  was  seen 
no  more.  The  dead  men  were  soon  recognized,  and  it 
was  the  opinion  of  the  people  of  Tching-tou  that  Wei- 
chang-tze  had  poisoned  all  the  soldiers  and  Mandarins, 
and  then  fled.  The  tailor,  Hang-pou,  being  among  the 
corpses,  was  found  to  have  given  his  creditors  the  slip 
forever. 

Victory  still  sits  on  the  banner  of  Tien-te,  and  he  will, 
without  doubt,  by  the  time  that  the  tea  is  again  fit  to 
gather,  sit  upon  the  ancient  throne  of  his  ancestors. 

Everything  is  now  gracefully  concluded. 


APPENDIX. 


'I  come  but  in  as  others  do." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


CHARLES  DAWSON  SHANLT. 
From  a  painting  by  William  E.  Marshall. 


CHARLES    DAWSON    SHANLY. 

IFrom  the  New  York  Tribune,  April  19, 1875.] 


INFORMATION  has  been  received  of  the  death  of  Charles  Dawson 
Shanly.  He  expired  at  Jacksonville,  in  Florida,  whither  he  had 
gone  for  the  benefit'of  his  health,  on  the  15th  of  April.  This  news 
will  carry  a  sharp  pang  of  sorrow  to  more  than  one  heart.  Mr. 
Shanly  was  known  to  the  public  as  a  writer  for  the  magazines,  — 
charmingly  companionable,  quietly  humorous,  playful,  and  quaint ; 
but  all  that  he  was  as  a  writer  seems  little  in  comparison  with  what 
he  was  as  a  man  ;  and  it  is  the  high-minded,  kind-hearted,  simple, 
faithful  comrade  and  friend,  rather  than  the  man  of  letters,  who 
will  at  first  be  mourned.  Nobility  of  character,  integrity  of  con- 
duct, fidelity  to  duty,  cheerful  submission  to  fate,  sweetness  of 
temperament,  and  modesty  of  bearing  are  rarer  and  richer  virtues 
than  intellectual  brilliancy  ;  and  they  were  all  combined  in  him. 
Air.  Shanly  has  lived"  in  New  York,  working  with  his  pen,  for  about 
eighteen  years  ;  and  to  all  who  knew  him,  and  all  with  whom  he 
came  into  contact,  he  was  conspicuous  as  a  type  of  what,  with  ten- 
derness and  pride,  the  human  heart  instinctively  accepts  as  a  gentle- 
man. His  life  was  lonely.  His  mind  seemed  to  have  been  long  ago 
saddened  in  some  way,  but  not  embittered.  He  was  a  kindly,  quiet, 
thoughtful  man,  who  worked  hard,  accomplished  much,  did  all  the 
good  that  he  could  find  to  do,  and  never  spoke  about  himself  or 
his  labors.  His  fortunes  were  small,  and  they  were  precarious. 
He  was  at  times  acquainted  with  hardship.  But  whether  in  shadow 
or  sunshine  his  mind  and  heart  remained  equable  and  patient,  and 
his  industry  and  probity  undisturbed.  There  were  not  many  per- 
sons, perhaps,  who  saw  and  appreciated  his  example.  The  more 
showy  and  pretentious  author  gets  the  most  credit  with  the  crowd. 
But  those  who  did  understand  this  example  found  comfort  and 


484  APPENDIX. 

strength  in  it,  and  will  remember  it  now  with  love  and  pride.  Mr. 
Shanly's  writings  consist  of  many  essays  and  descriptive  articles,  in 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  many  poems  and  ballads, — some  of  which 
are  imaginative  and  pathetic,  while  some  are  satirical  or  humorous, 

—  and  many  miscellaneous  articles  and  paragraphs  in  the  newspapers. 
He  was,  in  1860,  one  of  the  chief  contributors  to  Vanity  Fair,  — 
which  was  started,  in  the  fall  of  the  previous  year,  by  Mr.  William 
A.  Stephens,  —  and  he  became,  at  a  subsequent  time,  its  editor. 
He  was  also  the  editor  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  which  was  started  here  by 
Dr.  Alfred  L.  Carrol,  in  July,  1865,  and  was  discontinued  after  the 
publication  of  twelve  numbers.     He  was  a  contributor  to  The  New 
York  Leader,  for  which,  as  afterward  for  The  New  York    Weekly 
Review,  and  during  a  time   for    The  New  York  Albion,  he  wrote 
reviews  of  art.     He  was  passionately  fond  of  painting,  and  he  was 
an  expert  draughtsman  in  the  line  of  comic  sketches.     One  of  his 
characteristic  drawings,  published,  long  ago,  in  The  London  Punch, 
represents  with  excellent  comic  effect  the  horror  and  discomfiture  of 
a  stout  old  Englishman,  who,  at  a  private  museum  of  natural  cu- 
riosities, has  mistaken  a  big  honied  owl  for  a  stuffed  cat,  and  has 
got  his  bald  head  scratched  by  the  angry  fowl.     This  little  thing 
is  mentioned  as  denoting  the  bent  of  his  playfulness.     He  was  also 
a  contributor  to  The  New  York  World,  wherein  he  wrote  upon  social 
topics  and  the  evanescent  trifles  of  the  passing  day.     He  particularly 
excelled  as  a  writer  of  poems  of  dramatic  incident,  or  of  representa- 
tive dramatic  mood.       "The  Brier- wood  Pipe,"  which  met  with  a 
wide  acceptance  and  admiration  during  the  Civil  War,  was  his  ;  and 
so  too  was  the  weird  ballad  of  "The  Walker  of  the  Snow."     Still 
another  unique  work  of  this  kind  was  his  startling  and  sad  poem, 

—  which  is  picture  and  poem  in  one,  —  "  Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy 
shot."     This  was  first  published  in  London,  in  Once  a  Week.     Mr. 
Shanly  did  not,  perhaps,  accomplish  enough  in  this  vein  to  win  for 
him  an  abiding  rank  among  the  poets  ;  but  his  name  is  entitled  to 
its  place  in  every  representative  collection  of  American  poetry.     He 
was  not  indeed  an  American  by  birth,  but  this  was  the  land  of  his 
choice  and  his  labors,  and  here  he  would  have  wished  to  be  remem- 
bered.    Mr.  Shanly  was  an  Irish  gentleman,  of  old  and  honorable 
family.    He  lived  in  Great  Britain,  and  also  in  Canada,  before  settling 
in  New  York.     He  was  about  fifty  years  of  age,  and  of  a  hardy  con- 
stitution, having  blue  eyes,  iron -gray  hair,  a  weather-beaten  face, 


CHARLES   DAWSON  SHANLY.  485 

and  a  slender,  wiry  figure.  He  was  thoroughly  well  acquainted 
with  animals  and  field  sports,  and  he  was  a  great  walker.  "Within 
the  last  two  years  his  health  has  seemed  to  waste  slowly  and  grad- 
ually away  ;  but  this,  like  all  else  that  was  painful  and  sad  in  his 
life,  he  kept  to  himself.  He  knew  when  he  went  hence  that  he  was 
going  to  his  death,  and  he  had  prepared  himself,  with  humbleness 
and  submission,  for  the  inexorable  change.  There  is  no  one  of  the 
busy  workers  in  journalism  who  will  not  be  benefited  by  reflection 
upon  a  character  so  pure  and  simple,  a  life  so  industrious,  useful, 
and  blameless,  and  an  end  so  tranquil. 

WILLIAM  WINTER. 


University  Press :  John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


973 


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